Wednesday, June 21, 2017

What if Stella had never gotten her groove back?

I’ve recently realized something pretty important about myself…I am a lone wolf.

People annoy the fuck out of me. Seriously. I get that everyone finds human interactions annoying, but I honestly really really hate them more and more. I hate having to make small talk, I hate the pleasantries with strangers, I hate responding to text messages and fuck my life if I have to actually answer the phone.

I had just decided that it was because I’m a bitch, but I think it’s more than that.

Having to move back home and interact with human beings all day, every day, has really solidified that I will go into serious, serious credit card debt before I ever have to live with people again. I am legitimately losing my god damn mind. All I want in life is to come home to a house empty of humans with only my furry children waiting for me. No noise except for my cat screaming at me to feed him and the puppy crying because he’s so happy to see me. They would never ask me about my day because they can’t. And god bless them for it.

I just adopted a puppy, Pierre, two weeks ago so I’m pretty much hanging on by a thread in general right now. I love him so much but mother fuck a puppy is exhausting. Have you ever tried to make dinner while running back and forth between two rooms to make sure your puppy isn’t shitting and/or pissing on the rug or eating someone’s shoes? All you end up with is burnt food that you don’t even get to eat because right when you sit down the puppy has to go on his 330th walk of the day. (Sidenote: If you’re trying to get back to your birth weight, get a puppy. You never have time to eat and you don’t get to sit down either.) (Other sidenote: someone please help me.) Also, trying to do laundry while your puppy pulls your clean clothes out of the dryer and drags them into his water bowl is super fun. You should try it sometime. Even better is getting to “sleep in” until 6:00 a.m. on weekends because Pierre is sick of his crate and wants to do sprints up and down the street. I have to say the most inspiring moment of puppy mom life so far is when Pierre pantsed me during a walk. Little fucker yanked on my sweat pants and boom, there it is. I’ve been humbled to the extreme these past two weeks.

I think when I have a dog my retreat from humans becomes even more necessary. Why would I want to hear about your boring ass day when I can watch my puppy do bunny hops chasing after crickets? Oh, you’re tired? Cool, I’ll call you every time I have to get up in the middle of the night to take the puppy out and see how tired you feel the next day. I don’t have time for your bullshit Susan. I need to watch Pierre on the dog cam at daycare for fucks’ sake.

There is something to be said for why we need to leave the nest in our 20’s. The theme of my 30’s has been “leave me the fuck alone” and that’s not really vibing with my roommate situation. I don’t think anyone in their 30’s wants to be asked where they are going and what they are doing.  Where am I going? I’m going to participate in a condom-less orgy in a crack den on Skid Row. See ya roomies. It’s gotten to the point where I wait until they’re both away from the front door and just sprint out so I don’t have to hear people’s words and respond to them. I would love to receive the silent treatment. It would be a Christmas fucking miracle!  

I’m hoping that when I move to Seattle, and I won’t be forced to constantly interact with humans, that maybe I’ll actually want to. Or maybe I’ll go completely feral and get a job working from home, get all my groceries delivered, and hiss at humans if they try to interact with me. I can legitimately picture that life and I don’t hate it.


If you don’t hear from me after I move, it’s fine. I probably just left my cell phone in a gas station bathroom and disappeared to go live my life. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my Amazon wish list updated so you can send me and Pierre shit. Byeeeeeeeee!     

Friday, March 31, 2017

The cure to catching feelings is Alcohol and Xanax.

For those of you who know me personally, even though I have to say I love those of you that read this and don’t know me a little bit more, you’re well aware of my plan to get the fuuuuuuck outta California. Yup. There’s a reason that I’m albino, hate the beach, have never had a bikini body and have never fucked a surfer and that’s because I am not meant to live in California. (In retrospect I probably have fucked a surfer but not at the beach or at a beach related bar so I’m not committing to that as a truth.)

While I try to get my shit together so I’m not one of those assholes that moves to a new state with nothing and then finds themselves giving HJ’s in a Burger King parking lot or showing their tits to high school kids for pocket change (I don’t know if people really do this, but it would make a great scene from a movie), I’m obviously not on the prowl for a man friend. Being in a relationship forces me to expend a lot of time, energy and money. All three of those things are now focused on one goal and no one is gonna fuck that up for me. Seriously. I will paper cut you until you die. Mama’s got a plan and it doesn’t involve any boys, bitches, or babies!  

Side note: I recently had my birth control implant taken out and am petrified that I’m going to get pregnant. This is only an interim issue until I have that blessed IUD shoved into my cervix to ensure I live the life of my dreams. Side note part two: I have not touched a man in a while so this fear is unfounded. Side note part three: I will literally pepper spray and/or taze a penis that comes anywhere near me right now. My male coworker snuck up behind me in the kitchen this morning and I nearly murdered him with a bottle of Ranch dressing. The final side note: I was not actually using the Ranch dressing it was just the closest thing to me and I don’t want to be judged for eating Ranch dressing in the morning.

Dating has been less than a priority for me for a long time anyway. Namely because dudes are fucking lame and my roommates gave birth to me and I just really, really want a dog and can’t commit my affection to anyone else. But since it could be a yearish until I’m actually pulling my uhaul into my sweet new place in Seattle, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with some dudes to remind me why I’ve committed to dying alone. But I don’t want to be accused of being one of those assholes that gets someone’s balls in a twist and then peaces out and causes some man tears. So on my dating profiles I’ve made it very clear that I’m only in California for a little bit longer and then I’m out. And no one is invited to come with me. NO ONE.

Turns out, all these assholes that pretend they don’t want to wife down, ARE FULL OF FUCKING SHIT. I’ve never had people try to wife me so hard since I made it clear ain’t nobody got time for that. Mother fuckers are coming out of the woodwork with weird ass professions of commitment desiring. Seriously? GET AWAY FROM ME. All I’m trying to do right now is not get pregnant, not buy shit I don’t need and stockpile my parent’s medications so I’m good for at least the first year in Washington. I have DREAMS and GOALS people. I thought going the casual route would be smooth sailing. NOPE.  Anyone who doesn’t look like a rapist/pedophile/bunny murderer is super bummed out when I confirm that I’m here for a good time, not a long time. I am so fucking confused.

Is the new trend in 2017 catching feelings? Are we all trying to husband/wife up so when the Tangerine Tyrant gets us involved in nuclear war we have someone to barricade ourselves in a basement with? Did we all give up our medications for lent? Also, should I be trying to nail down one of those doomsday preppers so I have a place to hide and eat canned Spaghetti O’s in? Oh shit. I’ll have to ponder that after a couple of vodka tonics tonight.

But for real. Are all the other assholes like me who are not shitty people, but not trying to find love or commitment, gone? Have they all succumbed to STD's or gotten married or come out of the closet?

I do want to clarify though that I’m not trying to find some douchebag dudes to hang out with. I’m not looking at being named in someone’s 401K disbursement, but I’m not signing up to be treated like a goldfish a kid won at the fair but then got sick of. I’ve been in too many relationships where I’ve tried to mend the wounded bird and then the bird took off and spewed diarrhea all over my car. In my thirties I’m done dealing with little boys that never grew up. Bye Felicia. Bye Ferdinand. Bye all you cunts.


All I’m saying is that I’m a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him not to get attached. Also pay our fucking tab and be nice to your mother. 

Monday, October 10, 2016

when all else fails, grab a pussy.

As mentioned in my previous entry, I am trying to ease myself back into the dating scene. Actually, fuck that. I haven’t eased in. I jumped in head first without even checking how shallow the water was and risking breaking my god damn neck. Whatever. Big risks equal incurable STD’s right?

Friday night I had a date with my number one internet D. I had a good feeling about this one. The dude seemed normal. He wasn’t overly attractive so I didn’t get nervous potential diarrhea about meeting up with him. Being the more attractive one always gives you a good upper hand and ensures you won’t be paying for shit. He found a bar that was totally my style, very dark so my under eye wrinkles are hidden and my smeared eyeliner looks like an on purpose smoky eye, and had decent beers on tap so I wouldn’t have to pretend that I truly believe Miller High Life is the champagne of beers. (Spoiler alert: it is not, unless you are from Wisconsin.)

Parking was a little aggressive near the bar so I had to do a drive by to circle around and saw my date standing outside the bar. Initially, was not attracted to him. But, during my extensive and tragic dating career I’ve learned that physical attraction can happen later. Or after 16 jager bombs and an ecstasy pill. I’m not going to lie, the shallow skeezy little bitch in me half considered bailing and going back home to my cat, Netflix, nacho cheese Doritos and wine; but like I’ve said before I’ve already accumulated some fucked up dating karma and I’d like to not have a shitshow date sometime in 2017, maybe?

I parked, walked up to the bar, greeted the internet D and told myself either way I’d probably have a good time. Turns out, I’m an idiot. I did not have a good time. In fact, I would have rather been curled up on my bathroom floor expelling waste from all of my orifices. I hope the internet D reads this and learns something. Because this is how you lose the chance to touch a girl’s vagina, or if you’re Donald Trump, grab a woman by the pussy.

1.       Create a scene that makes your date feel uncomfortable.

As we walked up to the front door of the bar, there was a cute little old man in a wheelchair checking ID’s. He was chatting with a couple and so I stood to the side, patiently holding my ID and waiting my turn. Internet D loudly proclaims, despite the fact that NOBODY WAS FUCKING LOOKING AT HIM OR TALKING TO HIM, “She’s with me!” and drags me into the bar. What in all the fucking fucks!? Instantly I hated this man. I am not with you. I am with her. And by her I mean anyone else in the bar besides you. That was my first impression of Internet Dbag. After this awkward scene at the door, Internet Dbag proceeds to throw a fit that someone was sitting at “his table” as I awkwardly sat by myself at a different table because who gives a fuck about what table we sit at you fucking psychopath. Literally 3 minutes into this date and I contemplated murder/suicide. Shut. it. down.

2.       Take your date to a bar that you basically live at and all of your friends work at.

It became very clear, very quickly that Internet Dbag was a regular at this bar. It was like a fucked up Cheers episode. The bartender was his best friend. Which in theory sounds great, except he was a freak of fucking nature. As I uncomfortably tried to get past the fact that I hated this dude and make polite conversation, his friends kept walking by our table and high fiving him like he just lost his virginity.  They didn’t acknowledge my presence, nor did they congratulate my vagina. Who at this point had sealed shut like a fucking dungeon. Rude. I like attention, but I don’t want to be shown off like a prized pony. I’m a person. I don’t want to hear your side conversations with your friend about your last circle jerk. PAY ATTENTION TO ME OR DIE. Also, his running commentary on what his friends behind me were doing while I was talking made me want to slice him open from throat to sternum with a fucking butter knife. This rage is real.

3.       Talk about all the famous people you’ve met.

I tend to avoid dating dudes who live in Los Angeles. Mainly because I don’t give a shit if you’re an out of work “actor” who handed Channing Tatum a water bottle once and now you think Channing Tatum is your friend. Channing Tatum doesn’t give a fuck about you. Channing Tatum wouldn’t let you towel off his ball sweat. CHANNING TATUM IS BUSY. Lo and behold, people in Orange County still think they are best friends with celebrities. Internet Dbag talked over me constantly to talk about celebrities he’s met who think he’s the tits. In summary: Iggy Pop, Hunter S. Thompson (RIP), the Descendants (the whole band) and Nine Inch Nails (the whole band) think this guy is so great they basically want to pull down his pants and kiss his ass. Pretty sure it’s more likely that I’m going to grow a third tit out of my armpit. Iggy Pop doesn’t care about you. I saw Iggy Pop perform once and almost pull his dick out and I know that Iggy Pop and I are not friends. THIS IS REAL LIFE.

4.       Start talking about our next date when I’m clearly casing my exits so I can get the fuck out of here.

My face doesn’t lie. When I’m not having a good time, it goes beyond resting bitch face. I’m pretty sure the words “I’m having a bad time” actually appear on my forehead in flashing lights. Everyone in that bar, maybe even the entire city, knew I was not having a good time. But dipshit was too distracted by his homies, the tv, his own idiocy to notice that I hated the sound of his voice. He mentioned three follow up dates. ARE YOU DUMB? Did you not notice that each time you mentioned another date I stared into my beer and clicked my feet three times hoping a tornado would hit and we would all die? No I don’t want to go to the wine bar that your friends own where you drink “$100.00 bottles of wine” and I sure as fuck don’t want to go to Big Bear with you and your family who are probably just as obnoxious as you are. I WOULD RATHER GET A COLONOSCOPY, PAP SMEAR, AND ROOT CANAL AT THE SAME TIME THAN HANG OUT WITH YOU AGAIN. Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!

5.       Mention an ex. Any ex. EVER.

I’m 67% sure I asked dude if he’d ever been married before. I might be wrong, so I won’t harp on the potential lie. But everyone, every single person in the entire world, knows that you do not under any circumstances talk about your ex. Sure you might need to mention her once, especially to say you were married before but are now divorced. But do I need to know that your ex was there that time Iggy Pop metaphorically blew you backstage? NOPE. Not relevant to the story. Do I need to know that your ex who you were only “briefly” married to is somehow the focal point of every single fucking story of your entire 40 years of life? FUCK NOPE. Next time, just do everyone a favor and immediately start crying into your beer about how you miss her because clearly you’re a tragic ass mess. I can at least then leave the bar with another dude guilt free. BYE.

6.       Brag. At all. About anything.

If you’ve done cool shit, that’s awesome. Good for you. If it seems relevant to our conversation to throw in an interesting fact about yourself, go for it. If you completely take our conversation off topic to brag about something, GO FUCK YOURSELF. Example, I was talking about the last concert I’d gone to. This guy blurts out, “I’ve been shot and stabbed.” Listen Terri (not it’s real name), no one fucking asked you. I’m slightly interested to hear how these things happened, but because you interrupted the 2 seconds you gave me to speak to brag, I will not hear your story. I will act like a child and cover my ears to not hear the words coming out of your face. I will stab my eardrums out to not hear one fucking thing you are about to say. My entire soul hates you.

7.       Refuse to accept defeat.

I tried to be polite and hold out for as long as I could on this sinking ship of shit. But eventually it became too much. I started throwing out hints that no one was touching genitals today. I declined another drink. (Breathe in, I know this is shocking.) I started yawning. I pulled out my phone and feigned surprise like, “Oh my gosh it’s already 11:00!?”. Mother fucker refused to let it go. He suggested a second location. A second location? Unless it’s a shallow grave somewhere, no fucking thanks man. When I realized that he was not going to let this not be awkward, I summoned my inner bitch, looked him right in the eyes and said, “I’m going home.” He looked surprised. Probably the same face I made when Donald Trump actually became a viable option for President. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. Is this real life? He honestly thought he was getting somewhere. If females had the same false sense of confidence that dudes have, it would be insane. We would legitimately run shit. This refusal to accept defeat created the most awkward walk to my car where I did one of those hugs where none of your body parts touch theirs and peeled out of the parking lot like I just kicked someone’s baby. Clearly, even the molestey uncle hug and peel out wasn’t an indication that I was not at all interested. Dude texted me yesterday like things were good. You guys, I just can’t.

Dudes, on a real note, us ladies make a lot of effort when we go on a date. I know I definitely down play it, but I do stress over what to wear, if my make-up looks good, what the fuck my bangs are doing, and if my ass looks video girl luscious or Kim Kardashian pregnant horrifying. Don’t make me go through all that effort just to be a douchebag. Shut your fucking mouth and listen. Don’t take me to a bar and make me hang out with your friends and feel uncomfortable. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t brag. Don’t keep trying to take the banter to a sexual level if I’m blatantly refusing to take the conversation there. I get it, you’re trying to be funny. I’M NOT LAUGHING.


I’m not giving up. I’ll respond to your message One­_Man_Party in a minute. But I’m not taking any shit. And if I’m not laughing, you’re not getting laid. So if you wanted to tell me about how you toweled off Channing Tatum’s balls, DON’T. But feel free to tell me that story about how you shit your pants in a Costco as an adult man with bills. That, I want to know about. 

Thursday, October 6, 2016

resurrected dicks and catfishing that might be more like goldfishing

You guys, something really amazing happened. It's been on my bucket list since MTV brought us the life changing and thought provoking reality show, Cat Fish. My name is Jenn and I have always wanted to be catfished.

In my fantasy I've been talking to a super cute, super funny, girthy (in relation to the D obviously) dude and I'm really into it. Like, I'm naming all the puppies and freezing the 3 potential eggs I have left in case he wants a baby to take care of by himself in the future. He has some legit sounding excuses about why we can't meet up. Like he takes care of his sick mother and she thinks girls with tattoos and piercings are the devil and might try to baptize me in pig's blood in their bath tub or that he takes care of his 9 nieces and nephews because his sister has a gaping vagina and babies just fall out and he's trying to be a supportive sibling. But finally, it's happening and the world is like a big fucking rainbow land with unicorns and shit. But when I walk into the shitty dive bar where our love is going to blossom, the only person waiting is a large, sassy black woman. I immediately burst into tears, screaming "How could you!? I looooooooved hiiiiiiiiim!!!!!" and throw a chair through a window. I mean can't you just picture it? Doesn't it give you all of the feels to imagine it all?

I've gone on more dates with dudes from the internet than I'd like to admit. But I only fucked like half of them so I'm still doing alright.

Anyway, I've been doing OkCupid up super hard these past couple of weeks. I'm trying to buy a house and not pay rent so I'm legit trolling for a dude with a super sweet apartment, ample parking, and a little balcony area for my future puppy to hang out on. Goals mother fuckers, goals.

Currently I've got my number one internet man friend, and then my back up D and the back up back up D. My number one D has a fucked up work schedule and lives kinda far from me so that fucking blows. So I've accumulated the back up D who lives closer, probably doesn't work, and is also kind of a shitshow. And then the back up back up D who I'm not super sure about. He seems cool but all over the place. He might be married, he might be a serial killer, or maybe even a hoarder of cat carcasses. So it's kind of like 3 dicks, 1 vagina.

Today was a bad day. Like the kind of day when you need a vodka drink by 10:30 a.m. and consider starting a trash can fire just to get the fuck away from work. Clearly when back up back up D texted me promising free drinks and food after work I was down. I'm above sucking a dick for a diet coke, but a couple vodka tonics and spinach artichoke dip and things can get crazy. Since he's my third ranking D I didn't give a shit about wearing my boring ass work clothes or brushing my hair. Girl needed some booze. I walked into the bar and immediately noticed a dude sitting at the bar that totally fucking phantomed on me like a year or more ago. I thought it was weird because dude lives in Silverlake and didn't really troll LB but there he was. I was stoked on the prospect of putting my tongue in someone's mouth right in front of his face.

I walked around to the other side of the bar and sat down. I pulled out my phone to be like bro, I'm thirsty where the fuck is you? Phantom dude sits down next to me. Before I can hiss in his face he says, "So I owe you that vodka tonic with extra limes right?". MOTHER FUCKER. Dude catfished me. He changed his cell phone number, used someone else's picture on OkCupid and tried to re-date me. What in all of the fucks of the world!? I tried to squeeze out some fake tears but I've been beaten down by life ya'all and I don't have any fake tears left to give. I thought about throwing a chair, but there were some burly looking chicks nearby that looked like they would've gladly stabbed me for ruining their buzz. So I chugged my free vodka tonic, slammed the glass down, and did what Beyonce told me to do. Put both middle fingers up and yell boy bye. I really did that you guys. And it was AWESOME. I will never feel guilty about forcing my phone to call me Beyonce ever again.

I feel validated. I never understood why that dude phantomed on me and now I know he's been staying up every single night, sobbing and eating chips in bed and blacking out on whiskey by himself in his apartment. Wondering where his life went wrong and what he's missing. And then realizing it's ME, BITCH. Should I feel weirded out that he stalked me little bit? Hell no. I am worthy of being stalked. Am I bummed out that I no longer have a back up back up D? NOPE.

Ladies, next time you're wondering if that dude who phantomed on you is living a happy life and doing super awesome, know this. He's not. He's crying. And he should be. Because you, me and Beyonce are the fucking tits. And let's be real, I'm too fucking tired for a back up back up D.

Girl down.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

balding men with mustaches

I haven’t written in a minute. I wish I could say it’s because my life has been super awesome and I’ve been TFDing into the wee (or god willing not so wee) hours and living life instead of writing about it. But that would make me a dirty fucking liar, and truth is my thing. The gritty, dirty, possibly STD-covered truth is what I’m about.

So the herpes truth is that every time I’ve started to write it’s gotten dark. Like real dark. Like Fairuza Balk wanting to get penetrated by the devil in The Craft kinda dark. Basically, my dog died and I lost any sliver of happy I had in me.

I get it. There are refugee orphans drowning in the ocean and terrorist attacks and innocent people dying every day. But honestly for the past few months I don’t have any sad to give anywhere else. Friends and family have gone through shit and I’ve got nothing. Stupid boys with beards hit me up and I didn’t care. Not even a little bit. Basically, like RIP my vagina. No one will ever disappoint you again.

I realized sitting in my roach infested oven of an apartment with my blind cat who was equally depressed about losing his BFF/heterosexual life partner with no family or friends in Long Beach to bring me sadness burritos was legitimately going to cause me to take a Whitney Houston bath.

So, guys, you’ll be happy to hear that I’m back with my roommates that birthed me. My mom wouldn’t let me get back into the womb, selfish bitch, but I did the next best thing and moved into the lady cave at my parent’s house. AND I’M NOT FUCKING SORRY ABOUT IT.

Oh, your roommate doesn’t offer to bring you a breakfast burrito before you even get out of bed? SUCKS FOR YOU. Oh and you have to buy your own toilet paper, paper towels, peanut butter, bread, etc.? Not me mother fuckers that shit is just magically there for my use. BOOM.

I mean real talk, I struggled with the decision to take a few steps back from adulthood by moving back home. But here’s the thing, I won’t be broke anymore. And I’ll be forced to be a human being by interacting with people other than my coworkers that make me want to stab my eyeballs out of my head. And I’m motivated to take some huge steps into adulthood by saving to buy a house. BY MYSELF. MY HOUSE BITCHES. I mean I already have the super sweet bar cart and wine fridge so I’m halfway there.

Also I won’t have to share my dinner with roaches. Or hear my neighbors scream at each other, and at their children, and at their dogs, or just for fun. And I have air conditioning. Like all the time. I mean basically I’m going from hell to a cool 70 degrees kinda hell. That’s all I ask out of life man.

Oh and your probably wondering what’s going to happen to TFDing now that I live with the people that birthed me. Well, let me tell you this. Nothing encourages you to go out trolling when your other option is watching 65 hours of COPS re-runs, the history channel, or HGTV with two old people that have the TV on so fucking loud your eardrums start bleeding. I would even go home with a 3. My standards have infinitely dropped since I hit 30.

I mean I already have 3 okcupid dates lined up for the next couple of weeks. Personally, I’m rooting for the single dad with a mustache. But the chef who might be balding could definitely pull ahead if he cooks me dinner wearing just an apron.

Don’t worry. I’ll keep ya’all posted.


Cheers bitches $$$

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

match.com without the procreation

I’ve been MIA for a while because to be perfectly honest I haven’t felt funny. This blog isn’t about white girls bitching about other bitches being bitches. I mean I’ve had a few of those (calling all Cunty Carol’s) but that’s not what this is supposed to be about. So let’s get our glasses of wine/shots of vodka/beer bongs/champagne bongs/spliffs/joints/bongs, etc. ready for some real talk.

A couple of weeks ago my best friend/life partner/partner in crime/life coach/furry child passed away. I had Hercules for 20 years. This is not a joke or an exaggeration, though I know I’m good at both things. This dog was by my side for literally two decades. He made me laugh. Like one of his last practical jokes when he took a hot shit on the floor and conned my friend into stepping in it with her bare feet. Even better was she was too drunk to realize it had literally encased her foot and woke up the next morning on my floor with shit still caked in between her toes. I think I burst some blood vessels from laughing at that. He made me cry. Like when I purchased a beautiful new rug and he looked me right in the eyes and took a 2 minute piss on the formerly beautiful new rug. He’d be happy to know that the piss rug still remains in my apartment. I’m not aging well, perhaps it’ll be covered in my urine soon.

But best of all he made me get my ass out of bed every morning even when I felt like I couldn’t and I hated everything and wanted to never wake up. He relied on me and he needed me and I got my ass out of bed every day because I didn’t want to disappoint him. If you’ve never had a dog or are a heartless son of a bitch you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. And to that I say, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

The past few weeks I feel like Eeyore. And not in the cute way. Like the super fucked up way where it’s like all the little things that used to make me happy seem stupid and my life feels heavy and every time I see a picture of a dog on the internets I want to throw up.

I have my cat. But anyone who has/had a cat and a dog knows it’s not the same. My pup was obsessed with me. Seriously. Even when he was an old man and moving around hurt and he was tired, he was at my heels every step I took. I can’t tell you how many times I damn near lost my life tripping over him. Now that’s dedication. I am positive my cat has tried to kill me numerous times. Like when I was in college and my roommate and I lived in a two story apartment and he hid on the stairs and then attacked me so I fell halfway down the stairs with my laundry basket and possibly broke every rib in my body. Attempted murder. Or when he sat on my face as I was sleeping and tried to suffocate me with his fat ass. Attempted murder. Also I know my cat doesn’t need me. He may be blind, but he’s a fucking boss ass bitch. I wouldn’t fuck with him if I was a cat. To be honest I’m a grown ass woman and I’m scared of him. I’m that dog in the YouTube video tip toeing past the cat because I don’t want the wrath of Satan. He pretends he needs me, like when he cries into my mouth when he’s hungry. But the second he gets what he wants, the only thanks I get is a sneak attack claw to the ass cheek and he’s over me for the next 3-4 hours until he’s hungry again. I am an abused cat mom.

So anyway, I’ve been feeling really rough.

I’m trying to be positive. I mean now that I don’t have to worry about my furry kid all the time I have more freedom. I don’t have to rush home to walk him and make sure my cat hasn’t eaten him. If I want to go out and leave the bar with a 4 I totally can and my dog won’t be there to judge me. And if I realize outside of bar lighting he’s a 2 I can just let my cat kill him. (Kidding, sort of.) Spontaneous road trips to the Bay are no problem. I know I won’t black out and buy weird ass things on Amazon like silicone paw print baking sheets. (No regrets though to be perfectly honest.) But I can’t seem to convince myself that these things make up for what I lost.

My little brother, who has become my life coach/spiritual advisor/voice of reason/sponsor, gave me a pep talk. He told me that my dog was my excuse for a lot of things. It was harsh, but once I got past wanting to stab him with a butter knife I realized he was totally right. I had pretty much given up on serious dating and relationships because I knew there wasn’t a dude that would ever be as important to me as my dog. And let’s be real, no dude wants to be second choice to a dog. I don’t blame him. Instead of working on my shit, I just put all my energy into dog mom life. Which believe me, when you have a dog that has moved into geriatric years, is a full-time job. Now that I don’t have that, what the fuck do I do with myself?

Also when you experience a major loss in your life it makes you re-evaluate EVERYTHING. Your friendships, your lifestyle, who the fuck you actually are. When people found out about my dog I got texts, phone calls, flowers, Facebook messages, etc. People that were thousands of miles away and in a different time zone texted or called me to send me some love. People frantically called local flower shops to make special requests for cheerful bouquets to bring some happiness to my sad, sad home. As cheesy as it sounds, it made me realize that I have some fanfuckingtastic people in my universe. It also made me realize that the people who couldn’t bother, are irrelevant to me. I had been holding onto some “friendships” that had long been dead and this pushed me to let them go completely. Bitching about stupid shit over drinks is what friends do. But when it gets to the point that every hangout becomes a negative, woe is me situation, sorry but I’ve got to bow out. I need some positive energy and if I have to break some ties and look elsewhere for it, I will.

I also realized that Long Beach is not the place for me. I don’t care about fitting in and being cool and fucking people’s ex/current/kind of boyfriends to get attention. I’ve lived here off and on for years and I can say I’ve only created a few solid friendships. And those people don’t even live here anymore. I’m not blaming everyone else. But it’s become clear that this is not where my happy place is. If you feel like an outsider in your own neighborhood, it seems like a clear sign to move the fuck on. I’m actually looking forward to seeing where my next venture takes me. And the opportunity to leave behind a lot of dead weight. No matter where I go, I’ll maintain my blue hair don’t care lifestyle. Never sorry.

Another “adulting” step I took was banning all free dating websites. Clearly that was not for me. Yeah it was entertaining meeting some shitshows. But ultimately, I don’t want to wake up next to a shitshow every morning. I’ve mostly retired from mid-week blackouts and at 31 years old it’s not cute to show up to work with barf in my hair and a smeared eyebrow. Only on casual Fridays. And the Monday after a three-day weekend. Obviously. I’m not done with dating. I mean I still have a functioning vagina and I’m in my prime or whatever science says. The left side of my bed is also super empty and devoid of fur now. So I made the sacrifice of not getting the Thai takeout I really wanted (white girl problems) and signed up for Match.com. I figure if people pay, they must be at least a little more serious and I know they aren’t poor. (Sidenote: dudes on okcupid get your fucking life together. If you can’t afford to meet a girl for a drink at a bar, stop trying to date and get a fucking job. FUCK.) So far, it’s been kind of an LOL situation. Can someone please create a dating website for people that are serious but aren’t trying to impregnate me immediately? For real. I’ve gotten 4 “winks”, I think 2 messages and some fucking stars or something. But all these dudes want babies. Like tomorrow. Maybe that’s what I should do with my newfound free time. Create a dating website, that costs money to weed out some assholes, for people that are looking for relationships but don’t want kids. Letsboneandnotmakebabies.com. Someone help me copyright that shit. Although so far match.com has been quite the disappointment, at least I think it’s taking a step in the right direction. And it’s kept me from letting my neighbor penetrate me because he has a really cute puppy I’d like to be stepmom to.

Baby steps guys. Drunk baby steps.

In all seriousness though, thank you to the people that have helped me try to find some happiness again. The people that have shown up at my door and dragged me out into the world because they know I would never ask them to but I needed them to. The people that have stood back and given me space but make sure I know they’re around. The people that let me ugly cry and then ugly cry laugh when they brought up a story involving my crazy furry kid. The people that have forced me to look at myself and make some changes in my life since what I’m doing right now isn’t working. And the people that did nothing at all so I feel no guilt about letting them go and walking away.

If you need someone to kill a bottle of booze with you and talk about poop, call me. I’m ready.

Cheers. 

Friday, May 27, 2016

here, hold my drink while I pee for the 19th time.

For my fellow uterus carriers out there, you can back me up on this, bleeding from your vagina fucking sucks. Not only do the 5-7 days of your period ruin your life, but the 3-4 days before and after aren’t magical either. The day or two before the red sea comes through I always wake up with one chin pimple. I know, I know. Poor fucking me with my one pimple. But I’m telling you, this pimple is a mother fucking demon from hell. It’s bigger than my 19 pound dog and it hurts and it’s angry and it stays with me for what feels like 5-7 years.

Also the awesomeness of feeling like you’re 6 months pregnant, even though you’re clearly not because your uterus is punishing you for NOT being pregnant, because you’re bloated as fuck. The bloating leads to needing to pee every 76 seconds. Suddenly I’m a 98 year old woman and can’t get drunk because I’m peeing faster than I can consume shots of alcohol.

I’m positive the only internal organ I have that punishes me for not procreating is my uterus. The rest of my body is like, “Fuck yeah! Dodged that bullet for another month!”. Some people (dudes) might say it’s cool that our boobs get slightly bigger. True, they do. However, they hurt so much I would quickly turn any dude into a eunuch who tries to touch them. Seriously, I will turn you into Theon Greyjoy so fucking fast no one will be able to save you. The rolling red sea comes with rolling rage blackouts so you better get your shit together people.

My favorite thing is the emotional turmoil my uterus causes me. Those commercials of the orphaned kittens, puppies, babies, rabbits, etc. with Sarah McLachlan singing sadly in the background make me LOSE MY FUCKING SHIT. Seriously. That’s not an animal being murdered. That’s me sobbing hysterically and clutching both my pets as they struggle to flee my smothering love. It’s not just orphans, it’s old people too. I saw a cute older couple walking down the street holding hands and I turned into a fucking psychopath. I tried to hug them while ugly crying and wiping snot off my face and probably barely escaped getting arrested. Non-bleeding me would never display this kind of emotion in public. Also I only ugly cry when the direwolves in Game of Thrones die. WHICH THEY ALWAYS FUCKING DO YOU GOD DAMN MASOCHISTS. Don’t even get me started on watching that show while I’m having my own personal red wedding. I can’t even live. Get a gun.

In summary, I am by all definitions a nightmare when I’m having my blessed menses. Generally I will avoid dudes and dates during this rough time for the safety of all parties. But then I realized, why? It’s not like dudes have ever saved me from their man periods. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to shove snacks down a dudes throat because he’s having a hangry meltdown and losing his shit in public. He may not have blood spewing from his vagina but he’s definitely bloated and being a real bitch. So I decided to see if when all the pretense is gone and a dude is getting the raw dog version of me, can he hang?

I met up with a dude from the internets for drinks. It went about as well as coming out of the closet at a church in the deep South holding hands with your black boyfriend.

First of all, the demon pimple was in its full glory. There literally is not enough concealer to pretend it’s not happening. So there’s that. Also my uterus was trying to exit my body through either my belly button or my asshole. At any moment she might succeed and make a break for it so I made sure I wore a skirt for an easy escape, ain’t nobody got time for ripped pants, and shoes that I could run in. I probably should have sent him an updated pictured with 13 less filters and with a more anatomically correct chin angle. Whatever.

I could tell he was instantly terrified as I immediately shoved 6 pain killers down my throat when the bartender put my drink in front of me. He looked concerned so I eased his worry by saying, “Don’t worry it’s for my contracting uterus. At least I’m not pregnant!”. I’m 50% sure he thought maybe I was pregnant and was trying to not be pregnant by consuming medication and alcohol. Maybe he did kind of get my vibe.

Even better than my glossed over expression while he talked about his “life” and whatever was that I had to pee every 3 minutes. Seriously. There is already too much happening near my bladder. She can’t be bothered holding in a little urine. She’s BUSY. The good thing was I could make him start his story again over and over since I couldn’t retain one fucking word he was saying at me. By the time I was on drink three I had gone full Terri Schaivo. I don’t even know if I told him I was calling my Uber. Did I call an Uber? Not important.

Needless to say, don’t expect any wedding announcements from me in 2019. Dude sent an obligatory, “Are you feeling better?” text to which I replied, “My uterus is trying to murder me.” It’s been radio silence since.

It sounds cheesy but I’m going to live the mantra, “If you can’t handle me at hungover then you don’t get to handle me at blacked out and horny.” In the future I will bring my angry uterus, granny panties, chin demon and muscle relaxers to all of my dates. Bye boy if you can’t handle it.