Wednesday, December 28, 2011

really though, what would lindsey do?

Tis the season to get drunk off of your parent's alcohol and put ex-lax in your smug brother's food and then "accidentally" lock all the bathrooms so you can take video of him shitting in the yard and blow up your Twitter with raw footage. This is also the time when people make their New Year's resolutions; knowing full well that you'll start the New Year rolling yourself out from under a hairy man's body and trying to sneak out of his dorm room (fuuuuck not again, I swear he was 30!) with enough clothing to avoid an indecent exposure charge. Yet we continue to make these ridiculous resolutions because Cosmo tells us to...I don't know why it's so god damn hard to say no to those whores.

I've decided that I will make a few resolutions this year. But first I'll explain why yours are fucking stupid.

Resolution 1: I will be a better employee, friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc.
This resolution is probably why the suicide rate is so high near the holidays. First of all, I'll consider becoming a better employee when I make as much money as I deserve. In my opinion I'm worth $80,000 a year. Since I'm pretty positive that will never happen, I will continue to not give a fuck about my job and call my students cunts when they have a rage blackout on the phone. Give me a raise and I can afford enough Botox to keep my face in a permanent smile and enough meds to project faux happiness.  As a friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc. I'm fucking flawless. I ensure I take enough happy pills to last the whole time we're hanging out so I don't have an emotion to ruin the night and I always have alcohol in my home...always. I don't even need to explain my obsession with my dog. That bastard eats better than I do and has more accessories than Suri Cruise. Yeah Suri, I said it. But feel free to decide you want to be a better friend to me. I'll take appreciation in the forms of cash, pills, booze and maybe a leg hump or two if you're on my bucket list.

Resolution 2: Lose 5-185 lbs.
So most of us can stand to lose a few pound. I'm looking at you Mary Kate. I know you ate a cracker yesterday, I can smell it on your breath you quitter. However it's the moment that you decide that you will go on a diet that you suddenly have the urge to consume an entire bag of Flamin Hot Lays and see how many Big Macs can fit in your stomach. You also start to wonder if those dog cookies are really that good. I mean you should probably taste what your pets eat right? Don't moms test food before they feed it to their babies? Uh, where was I? Oh right, diets. Instead of making a resolution to follow the Lohan diet and filling my fridge with sugar-free Red Bull and cocaine, I'll just decide that I'm too poor to eat at McDonalds.  This could also be a true fact but I guess you'll never know. Just keep in mind that any change left in my couch is mine you son of a bitches.

Resolution 3: Find Mr. Right.
This one is my favorite. I don't care how many feminists stop shaving and have bushes growing out of their  polyester running shorts, these bitches are still pining for Mr. Right. Every year we decide that we'll stop chatting up the douchebags at the bar and start giving the nice guys a chance. And every year we spill our beer on the nice guy trying to push the blonde with the fake tits and hair extensions out of the way to get to the douche bag in the flannel shirt and "ironic" Buddy Holly glasses. Or the one in the band that hasn't really started and just bought a guitar two days ago, still in the case. Awesome. Maybe some of us find Mr. Right, but it's probably because he gave you a ride home and held your hair back as you vomited after the douche bag ditched you for one of those hipster chicks. I'm going to be a realist here and say that there's a 100% chance that I will not find Mr. Right this year. However, I will make a commitment to testing out as many possibilities as my peesh can handle.

Resolution 4: Kick bad habits: drinking, smoking, whoring, cursing, etc.
Two words: FUCK THIS. If I wanted to be boring and sober I would have gone to rehab at 16 and moved to Utah. The best part of my day is getting home so I can crack open a beer or bottle of wine, smoke a cigarette on my balcony and put all my pills in a bag, shake it, reach in and take the two that I grab first. Some might call this reckless, I call it Monday - Thursday. We'll get into what happens Friday-Sunday next time. I plan on continuing all of my bad habits. I've come this far and 27 is the golden age right? Bring it on  cirrhosis of the liver and emphysema. I've had a good run.

So while the rest of you resolution makers are out there getting gym passes, baking your neighbors cookies, working late and throwing out the vodka bottles you usually hide under your bathroom sink just know that I'm proud of you. You can find me smoking, yelling "Fuck" and taking body shots off the guy who looks like Vinny from Jersey Shore before we go to Taco Bell with the change you left in my couch.

See you bitches in 2012.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

have you met my friend jenn?

Yes, if you're wondering, that was a "How I Met Your Mother" reference. I felt it was necessary since this blog will loosely reference a few Barney's I've had in my life. Maybe a few Ted's and Robin's too. And if you hate that show fuck you, go read Kim Kardashian's blog. She doesn't like to move her face muscles either. Or do any type of deep breathing that might slightly flare her nostrils and take the attention away from her huge tits. She used daddy's money for those god dammit. Or her stepmother Bruce Jenner's money. But let's get back to the important topic

I have quite often found myself President, Vice President and Treasurer of the Third Wheel Club. Sometimes I even act as Interim-President of the Fifth, Seven and Ninth Wheel Clubs during three-day weekends and group outings. Now don't get me wrong, I love my current couple friends and loved many of my past couple friends. However if we're being completely honest, I did sometimes picture, for just a second or two, one of them getting plastered and making out with a stranger at the bar. Or deciding not to hold that rage back until the car ride home and flipping a table and screaming, "Prostitute whore!" at their significant other similar to the ever so classy Teresa Guidouche. No really, I was happy that they were happy and we were all so fucking happy I wanted to vomit all over myself and drown in the regurgitated gallons of beer I necessarily consumed every time I hung out with them.

It's funny how being the Third Wheel should make me feel like the Haylie Duff of the group, which is a joke because I'm clearly the dead-eyed Britney Spears that needs to be held up by my "back-up dancers", but it's always the couples that feel weird. They feel like they have to compensate and work at making me feel comfortable. This usually plays out one of the four ways:

1. Plying me with alcohol so I forget that I'm single and alone and therefore quite clearly on the verge of suicide. This generally works in my favor. I will never turn down a free drink. And if that turns into 6 Jager bombs and an oddly fizzing jack and coke that I weirdly black out after drinking, no complaints here. Even better if I wake up the next day and don't have 18 missed calls, 43 texts from numbers that I don't recognize asking if I've been tested recently, and a note pinned to my shirt with my blood type listed.

2. The set-up that's not really a set-up, just a strange sequence of events that result in two single friends ending up smashed into a booth together with a couple that have the acting skills of a Yellow Crayon. This time I'm paying for my own drinks because the random friend that shows up ends up being a former Wal-Mart employee who is unable to find a new job because of a mix-up with a drug test and alleged 4-month lapse in paying child support. This is when self-administiring a roofie is extremely tempting, but no way in hell am I raising this baby alone you son of a bitch! I'm expecting a night of free booze again, when all I get is an awkward three hours of trying to decide what's more important, my last ounce of pride or just licking the guy's face so I can maybe finagle a free body shot or at least pretend that I don't want my friends to die in a car fire. Please note, I have never met a quality guy through my couple friends. Is this a sign? Oh Jesus...where's that roofie I hid last weekend...

3. Trying to pawn me off on some random dude at the bar. One second I'm saying that the dude in the red shirt down at the end of the bar may not be a troll and the next second I'm being shoved in his direction like an 18-year old being sent off to college by her horny parents who can't wait to turn her bedroom into an "office". Now he's staring at me and I feel like I have no choice but to follow through. Now I don't have many flaws, only 1 and 1/2 to be specific, and first impressions are the 1/2. Unless I'm blacked out. Then I nail them every time. I'm so fucking charming it's ridiculous when I'm strategically placing my arms to hide the Jager stain on my shirt and trying to pull my dress out of my tights. But during a sober moment, my opening line sometimes consists of things like, "Hey, is your name Jeff? No of course it's not. Sorry I just said that to try to talk to you. I'm going to see if it's possible to drown myself in the sink now. Nice to meet you." Weirdly he didn't ask for my number. However I do think he asked security to keep me away from him. So I nailed it, clearly.

4. The "I hate being in a relationship" conversation. This one is my favorite. Boyfriend pisses off girlfriend earlier in the day by eating the last of the Doritoes when he knew she was going to wait until he left so she could eat them and pretend like he did the night before. Girlfriend drinks her fourth vodka tonic and unleashes about how big a prick boyfriend is. And how I'm so lucky that I can do whatever I want and go home with whoever I want and no one ever asks me where I'm going and what I'm doing and why I never wear my black lace thong anymore. This is the last thing a single person wants to hear. Yeah no dude ever eats the rest of my Doritoes but I also don't have one to kill that huge ass mother fucking cockroach in my kitchen, walk my dog at 5:30am when I'm freezing my nuts off and bitch slap the asshole at the bar that takes my barstool and steps on my new boot. So shut the fuck up and go home and make him hang that picture you've wanted up in your room for months. Fingers crossed he'll hammer his thumb on accident.

A word of advice to all of you couples that do any or all of the above to your single friends, we may be on the verge of suicide during the holidays while we debate how tragic it would be if we send out a Christmas card with a picture of us and our dog, but don't make it worse. Or I will fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend. And yes I have been tested, thank you for checking (562) 265-1098.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

is that toilet paper on my shoe or a used condom?

Growing up in the Litfun/Reed/Cole household it became clear very early on that the weak do not survive. If you show weakness, you will be shoved behind the couch for hours desperately trying not to piss your pants while your siblings mock you and throw things at your face. Maybe even threaten to pee on you...just to see if that will break the seal. Death threats, red ants down diapers, broken legs, just to name a few, were a pretty frequent occurrence. When you're harassed and humiliated as a child, you handle embarrassing moments a little more gracefully as an adult. I blame my childhood traumas for fucking up my mental capacity for understanding when I should, or should not be embarrassed.

Example one: Walking into a bar, restaurant, party, someone's apartments, etc. alone really freaks me out. I get this moment of panic that I'll walk in and the people I'm supposed to meet aren't going to be there. Or I'm going to get slimed like I'm Miley fucking Cyrus at the fucking Teens Douche Awards and this new shirt that I spent my grocery money on will be ruined; and everyone will laugh. I'm completely in awe of people that can go to movies alone, even if they're sitting in the back touching themselves to the Twilight movies, I still give you props. Though the high five will have to wait until you wash those egg implanters off your hands.

However I am not embarrassed to walk into a party and yell, "Who do I need to blow around here to play beer pong?" I have even less shame over the fact that I kept my promise and got to hear my little brother tell my parents all about their skank of a daughter over coffee the next morning. It didn't even faze me that good old mom drove over to the brothel the next morning to check out my conquest and then critiqued him for 20 minutes. Thanks mom, I'll make sure to remember that next time. Or the next, next, next time. This would mortify most people, to me, it's just another Sunday.

Example two: Every time I go grocery shopping I feel like the cashier and the bagger are judging me. Sometimes all I want to buy are three bags of Doritoes, cheese, and beer. But as I look into my cart I start to think about what this looks like. What am I a 21 year old boy? So out of guilt I throw some vegetables in there, maybe a loaf of bread, orange juice, and batteries. I have so many fucking batteries in my house its ridiculous. I could supply the porn industry with enough batteries to keep those dildos going for months. I'll even admit that one time a cashier at Vons, who I hope dies in a car fire, commented on my purchases. That son of a bitch started saying out loud what he was bagging. I wanted to choke him to death. I wanted to go back in time and stomp his mother's cervix when he was still a fetus. Instead I made up some lie about shopping for my roommate and ran out of there so fast I think I trampled a toddler. Whatever bitch your mom should have stopped by the condom aisle two years ago, not my problem. Talk about a bitch slap to my self-esteem.

The grocery incident gave me a nervous breakdown. But I felt it was perfectly acceptable to take off my underroos in the back patio at a bar and pee in the dirt. Not the bushes, in the dirt like a god damn cat. The smokers stared and I didn't give one shit. I think I even asked one of them to hold my underwear and check my dress for pee stains when I was finished. At that point I'm sure they would have much rather watched me sit in the dirt eating Doritoes and chugging beers. Maybe even changing batteries in all of my appliances. Note: this has not been the first time I've peed in an inappropriate place, and I'm pretty sure that it won't be the last. Stay tuned.

Example three: Doing laundry in my apartment building scares the shit out of me. I'm freaked out for the following reasons (1) one of my neighbors will be in there the same time as me and wonder why my blankets are covered in vomit (my cat is Bulimic, I swear!); (2) I will trip and fall while walking with my laundry basket and my bras and underwear and godawful sweat pants will rain down on the apartments below me; (3) one of my neighbors will steal a pair of my underwear and be disappointed with their choice and throw them in the trash where I will find them. This is why I schlep my 5 trash bags full of laundry to Buena Park every few weeks. Because I am a fucking weirdo.

On the other hand, I will describe in full detail embarrassing shit that happens to me. To anyone. The first time I met my friend's boyfriend, literally within 7 second of meeting him, I told him how my ex-boyfriend had rejected me when I tried to seduce him with dinner and lingerie. To me this was a completely normal conversation to have with a stranger. I mean he asked how I was doing right? I also constantly over share with my poor neighbors. I can't ever answer their "How's it going question?" without a 4 minute monologue about waking up in a gutter or puking on my own shoes. Fortunately I think they find me entertaining since they haven't moved out yet.

Most people tell me they find my Facebook updates entertaining because they're offensive and out of control. I'm more than happy to tell you about my one-night stand but don't you dare fucking ask me to do my laundry and go grocery shopping with you. Too much, too soon, too far.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

is it dick o'clock yet?

Everyone has had a one night stand of sorts. Whether you merely spooned with a stranger and played the who's vomit is in bed with us the next morning game or if you went all out and let them dirty Sanchez you while you called them multiple names figuring at least once you got it right...maybe. The chances that his name was Ryan, Brian, Mike or Chris are pretty good right? I don't know I'm not a fucking machine so don't ask me for the statistics. Google it bitch.

These one night stands usual stem from the dick o'clock phenomenon as my brother so sweetly refers to it. We've all experienced this moment. It's when the people start scrambling at the bar and lower their expectations. When you succumb to the reality that there's no way in hell you're going home with an 8 tonight, shit with those pants on you didn't even have a chance at a 6 (even before you smeared your eyeliner all over your face and dribbled Jager down your shirt), and decide "Fuck it, a 4 will do just fine." You can watch this moment of clarity hit. Suddenly the guy trying to suck it in and look mysterious dry humps the girl with puke in her hair next to him and squints his eyes a little to convince himself she's cute. And the girl who told her friends an hour ago that she was definitely NOT going home with another loser rubs her boobs on the douchebag next to her at the bar twating about how awesome his new tires on his lifted truck are.

Now dick o'clock doesn't just affect those of us with an infinity for bars. It's actually almost even better at a house party. All bets are off when people realize they have about 15 minutes to put their hands down someone's pants or they're curling up on the floor alone, without a pillow and about a 90% chance of pissing themselves at some point in the middle of the night. At least if someone is next to you, you can blame the pee on them; there's a good chance they won't even deny it. Again people lower their standards and choose whoever is still standing, or at least breathing. Anything with a pulse is fair game at 3:00am.

I have been a victim of dick o'clock. Most recently at my friend's birthday party. I went there knowing with the amount of booze I would be drinking that the pants were coming off. I've learned to accept myself for the whore that I am. I would like to thank Courtney Love for this. She is my whorespiration. I told myself, nothing less than a 7. Big dreams right? So obviously I went for the 9...I even thought I had a pretty good line about having him show me around his van. Clearly I shot too high too early. It wasn't early enough for him to lower his standards, I can accept this. I may not even punch him in the throat next time I see him. Ha...that's a lie.

So my big dreams didn't work out. I contemplated the 6's hanging around. I thought, what would Lindsey do? Which led to the vodka shots. Suddenly I realized it was dick o'clock and I couldn't discern a 10 from a troll. So I did what any intelligent girl would; turned to the guy closest to me and asked him if he liked to cuddle. Surprise, surprise...he majored in cuddling at community college. Fantastic!

We can now fast forward to the next morning when I woke up next to ChrisRyanBrianMike and squinted my eyes and ignored the fact that I might have had my head in someone's pee and thanked Courtney again for her wisdom.

What happens in San Diego stays in San Diego right? I hope that weird itching and burning stayed there too.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

nice to see you...dick.

I've been technically single for a long, long time. If there was a phrase to use that actually epitomized how long it's actually been without making me sound like there's dust bunnies in my vagina I would use it. More or less I've been on the trolling for dick train for quite a while. This means that the amount of horrible dating stories I have is too tragic to even compile. I hate dating more than I hate terrorism. Honestly, I'd rather be water boarded than deal with this dating bullshit.

However, my favorite part of dating is the break up. I know that sounds like a defense mechanism that I'm using to avoid talking about my grief and heart ache. But no joke, I stick it out until I literally can't stand to see that person's face for one more second. I let them fester like an open wound and drive me to the point of upping my meds and alcohol intake by 40%. If you know anything about me that amount would kill most. For some reason I feel like if I keep them around until the next step could only be a murder suicide then somehow I'm some kind of fucked up relationship martyr. To sum this all up, once I'm done with them I wish they could be sucked into some vortex and moved to another universe where everyone has herpes. I clearly don't hold grudges.

Since I have yet to discover how to vortex these sons of bitches out of my universe, I'm unlucky enough to run into them when I least expect it. Example one, running into the mama's boy I dated at CVS when I was on the verge of either puking my guts out or shitting my pants. As I tried to duck down behind a maxi-pad display clutching my economy sized container of Pepto Bismol and every kind of over the counter cough medicine the store had, I prayed that my intestine would cooperate with me just this once and I would never eat a burrito again. At least two women walked by in sweat pants and gave me looks of pity as I crouched there for what felt like hours. Usually I would have thrown a camel toe insult their way but at that moment in time they actually were better than me. I had butt crack sweat for god's sake. You win ladies, you win.

Example number two, running into Chris, the one who'd had his penis in every 18-year old raver in Orange County. I was nursing one of the worst hangovers I had ever had, literally sweating Jager and silently apologizing to my liver for putting her through so much. I had on my dress from the night before and smelled like I had rolled around in smoke, urine and a little bit of ass. I decided to run into a liquor store to buy some water before my brain exploded and my adorable new car turned into a Law & Order crime scene. As I stared blankly at my 20 different water choices (seriously why the fuck are there so many different kinds of bottled water?) I heard a familiar voice coming from directly behind me. The brain cells that I had left screamed at me not to turn around. The ones that were clearly still partying must have been controlling my limbs because I turned around. There he was. That tall, skinny, son of a bitch. Now I probably still could have gotten away at that point but of course I made some weird noise that was a hybrid between a dry heave and a nervous giggle. Eye contact was made and before he could say anything I said "I'm doing great thanks!" in the highest voice that has ever come out of me and bolted out of the store. This is the first time I realized I am a freak. Who tells someone how they are doing without the person asking?  I guess I really showed him that I was better off without him. Idiot.

A few months ago I was kind of seeing this guy, PW. PW was hot. Like smokin hot. I generally tend to avoid dating super attractive people because they take too much energy. Also I kind of prefer to be the more attractive one. Then they can worry about me upgrading since clearly I can. Anyway, I had a super big crush on this guy. Did I mention he was hot? Also, because life isn't fair, he was funny and kind of nerdy and had these cute little freckles on his nose. I want to barf just thinking about him. I completely messed up my system. I texted him first and then checked my phone 10 times a day to see if he'd texted me back. Then, instead of waiting an hour to text him back like a smart girl would, I was lucky if I could wait 4 seconds. What a loser right? One night, after a little too much wine and an overdose on doritos, I texted him with the whole "What are we?" question. I'm pretty sure I already mentioned that life isn't fair, but just to reiterate, of course the response I received was "It's not you, it's me". Get a gun.

Since I had clearly given him the power during our short relationship, I was NOT giving him the power when we had our inevitable run in. No fucking way. For the next three weeks I never left the house in less than a god damn prom dress and full hair and make-up. I was the best dressed person walking their dog at 6:00am. Take that you jogging whores in your sweatpants. I kept thinking the run-in would happen and it never did. Then I did the stupidest thing I possibly could and got comfortable. After a 3 hour boozefest at my house a few friends and I decided to head to the bar where I met PW. The sober part of my brain probably knew this was a bad idea, but the drunk part of my brain that approved of my partially slutty outfit was ready to do this.

I get to the bar, I'm feeling good. About an hour in, still no PW sighting. Alright I thought, bring on the shots let's get this shitshow really going. The moment I realize, maybe it's time to switch to beer (water is never an option), I spot him at the bar. We make eye contact. I'm trying to decide what I'm going to say. Should I mention a new fake boyfriend? Start laughing with my friends at a non-existent joke? Lick someone's face? I didn't even need to worry about it because he just turned around and walked away. I should have just realized I dodged a bullet and snuck out the back door. But that would be what a sane person would do. I on the other hand decided to follow him outside and spy on him. Let's fast forward past the seeing him with another girl and taking tequila shots with her and laughing that laugh I really liked a lot. We'll fast forward right to me having a drunk, public mental breakdown outside the bar. Yup, I was THAT girl. The girl that strangers walk by and think "I'm glad that's not me." The girl that a random drunk dude comes up and hugs and says something inspirational like "He's not worth it" while trying to figure out how he can get me blow him. I was every sorority girl's nightmare.

This is when I realized, running into an ex will NEVER go the way we want it to. So next time I'm just going to smile, take a deep breath, and punch that asshole in the face.

Friday, August 12, 2011

I can see your feet, I know you're in there.

Public restrooms can be a terrifying experience. I'm sure everyone has a story of when they thought the end was near and a toilet flush was their horror movie soundtrack.

Now I can handle public restrooms and the horror that exists within them pretty well. I credit this to my binge drinking career. Once you've found yourself face down on the most disgusting bathroom floor ever wondering if that's your vomit or someone else's but not giving two shits either've hit rock bottom and feel a sense of camaraderie with Ms. Spears as she trolls gas station bathrooms barefoot.

Despite the fact that I don't have a sense of doom every time I walk into a public bathroom doesn't mean I enjoy the experience. Clearly I'd rather have some alone time when I'm releasing some type of substance from my body. And I'd rather not know that you ate some bad Indian food for lunch and your IBS has really fucked you over this time. But I honestly support the ladies that just let it all go and handle their business. I can deal with the demon noises coming from the next stall for the 2 minutes it takes me to pee, wash my hands in the hottest water possible and sprint the fuck out of there without even checking to make sure my dress isn't exposing my left ass cheek. But the ONE thing that cuts off my pee flow faster than a cop driving by when I'm popping a squat in an alley is what I like to call the "poo stand-off".

This happens at least once a week at work. They come up with a new way to shatter our hopes and dreams and drive us to suicide monthly. This month it's cutting off our bathroom supply. Now if I want to empty my bladder of the nine cups of coffee and two Red Bulls that I've consumed to keep myself from blacking out at my desk I have to walk to another floor, walk by every department left in the building and deal with the anxiety that the "poo stand off" gives me.

Let me explain this phenomenon. The poo-stand off is when two people need to drop a good old deuce but are waiting for the bathroom to empty so they can poo in peace. Now usually this strategy will work. The people around you will notice the dead silence coming from your stall and they'll hurry so you can have your "you" time. But then there are those times when you and another person are trying the same strategy. Not only is this awkward for the two pooers, but it's ten times more awkward when you're me, stuck in the middle of this war that no one can win.

Now I usually don't have a problem peeing. But when I walk into the middle of a poo stand off it's like my bladder gains a mind of it's own and the only thought is "Fuuuuuck this bitch we're holding out until this shit gets REALLY awkward". So there I am, sitting in dead silence, waiting for even a sniffle from one my comrades. Nothing. I will myself to pee. I imagine rain, waterfalls, sprinklers, hurricanes but still nothing. Somehow I've gotten myself involved in this and I don't even have a food baby to abort! Relief only comes when some unlucky fourth person walks in and the noise from their entrance gives my bitch of a bladder the courage to unclench. At this point the pleasure of peeing is gone completely. Now I'm just pissed off. I've lost 4 minutes of my life and I want them back.

This situation gets even worse when the people try to pretend they're not there. It takes every bit of strength that's left after internally screaming at my bladder to not yell "I saw you just put your feet up bitch!" That childhood game where if you close your eyes other people can't see you is not real. Oh and while I'm dashing hopes and dreams let me point out that there's no Santa Claus either. Your mother's waiting for your call.

Honestly, unless you take off your shoes before you go into the bathroom we know who you are. And we also see you drink a pot of coffee, eat a burrito for lunch and then practically sprint to the bathroom with sweat forming on your upper lip. Just do us all a favor black pumps and use the bathroom at Wendy's so I can stop drinking cranberry juice to prevent a future bladder infection.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Wanna maybe get naked with me? Message me back ;)

So online dating.

We've all seen the commercials where the two super attractive people do a little interview before meeting and look all shy and nervous. Then they walk up and hug and you can practically see the sparks fly. Cut to them cracking jokes while sipping wine and talking about how they can't wait until their second date. First of all, on the level of attractiveness of these two people, I call motherfuckin bullshit. Two extremely attractive people do not need online dating. If you can bounce a quarter off your ass and your penis hasn't stayed in your pants longer than a day in decades, you don't need to troll for dick on the internet.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not mocking online dating or judging people who go there. I'll prove why in a minute. I'm merely saying that people who have douchey guys or slutty chicks with fake tits lining up to buy them drinks at a bar don't cry themselves to sleep at night cuddling an empty bottle of wine and trying to get their shitty cable to connect to Skinemax so they can pretend they got some action.

Because I HAVE woken up next to an empty bottle of champagne (or two) and an empty bag of Doritos (or two), I decided what the hell, what do I have to lose? My dignity? Left somewhere at my brother's Halloween party last year. Or maybe at my family Christmas party when I took off my pants and let my family members take pictures and then tried to bone a 20 year old. That's neither here nor there. The long and short of it is that I have no pride so that wasn't an obstacle.

Enter this fun little rape den called First of all I knew I wasn't classy enough for and I couldn't quote you shit from the Bible so eharmony was out of the question. I don't actually want to get gang banged so plentyofdicksinthesea or whatever the hell that site is was out of the question. Okcupid seemed like a good balance between trolling for dick and actually trying to meet a person who wasn't featured on To Catch A Predator. Thus, one Friday night after two bottles of wine and a muscle relaxer or two, plus I'll be honest shedding a few tears during "Just Friends", I signed up and started the journey.

I decided that instead of trying to be cute and coy like all the other lonely bitches, I would go the "being true to myself" route and letting the bitterness and sarcasm out. I figured this would weed out the dudes just looking to put it in a warm crevice. No whorebag dude wants to penetrate the girl who might make a snide comment about their unusually large left testicle. At least that was my theory. So I create what I thought was a pretty awesome profile and taking a deep breath and another chug of wine hit submit.

I kid you not, within 30 seconds I got my first message. I was intrigued, kind of excited. Open it up. Here's the gist of it:

"Hi. My girlfriend and I think you are smokin hot. She's 32 and was in playboy twice. We want to meet you somewhere and discuss the three of us hanging out. Let me know if you're interested. She's hot. You're hot. Hope to hear from you."

Wow. I guess that took a nasty shit on my theory of weeding out the penetrators. I sent a message back politely declining the offer. I'm pretty sure I alluded to Hef's jizz being equivalent to dust but that last chug of wine pretty much did me in and I can't quite remember what my reply said. Pretty sure it was awesome though. Of course.

For the next three days my phone constantly blew up with emails with subject lines like "Rowdytexan is checking you out right now!". OMG! Rowdytexan is checking me out! Holy shit! Dreams DO come true. I decided to give it a week. Then I met my first stalker. Homeboy emailed me three times within 10 minutes. The last one, quoted word for word. I promise. Get your barf bag ready:

"I love your smile. It lights up my day. And your eyes compliment your hair. And you look so happy. I would love to meet you. I feel like we're soul mates. What are you doing right now? Can we meet? Tomorrow? Message me back. Please. I'll be on my work computer until I hear back from you. I'm staying at work. Hope to hear from you."

Even though I knew, without a doubt, that this guy could not in any way watch me through my webcam, I checked to be sure it was turned off four times. I still didn't even trust it so I put tape over it. Then I locked all my doors and windows even though I knew he couldn't get me and it was 150 mother fucking degrees in my apartment. This was the end of my online dating experience. Where the fuck was that guy from Dateline with the bad hair when I needed him? I'm pretty sure this guy wasn't just looking for lemonade and home baked cookies.

The ego boosts were cool. It was nice to have people tell you you're hot. Even if that person is 54 years old and wacking off to my picture and trying to watch me through my webcam. Which is turned off. God dammit I need to check again. Ok, we're good.

The lesson I learned is that I would prefer to troll at bars. No one on okcupid ever bought me a drink and tried to grab my ass in public. Call me old fashioned but I still believe in a little bit of romance.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

I've succumbed to my inner hipster

I'm not actually pregnant. It's yet to be determined if I'm bipolar and/or depressed but for now, to prevent myself any unnecessary anguish and soul searching, let's just say I'm not those either. But I did go to the doctor's once with stomach pain and within 8 seconds was diagnosed as all three. At that point just pregnancy would have been a dream. I think that's what he was going for. Bring on the terrible news and when you find out it's just acid reflux and not terminal cancer you'll be stoked as shit!

I've had an aversion to the whole blogging thing since it started. Basically it boils down to why should I be so conceited and assume I'm such a unique thinker that people would give a rat's ass what I have to say? But then I realized...I'm pretty awesome so why shouldn't everyone want to read my witty posts and rants? So what I'm trying to say is this is for you friends, stalkers, potential one-night stands and hoarders with your plethora of cats surrounding you. And in the words of one of Bret Michael's whores...."don't threaten me with a good time."

I'll let this first post simmer a bit and see how it feels. By tomorrow morning I might come to my senses and realize I'm just like every other asshole in this world and I really don't have an original thought in my head. Then I'll have to run to the computer and delete this thing like I did with my online dating profile. More on that to come...

See how I did that? Yeah, I know. I'll miss you too.