Sunday, September 30, 2012

till death do us part. or at least until your penis stops working.

People who enjoy dating are Masochists. Dating fucking sucks. It sucks worse than one of those epic bouts of food poisoning where lava is flowing out of your asshole and you're puking so violently into the trashcan that it's splattering your face and there's nothing you can do to fix it.

When someone says they like dating I decide immediately that I don't want to date them, ever. I won't even let it buy me Taco Bell even though it's 2 a.m. and all I can think about is how much I want a burrito in and around my mouth area. Why? Because if you're into dating and therefore a Masochist you're going to be into some weird shit. These are the guys that want you to pee on them and then roll around in your urine or they want to do it "Rockstar" style. The "Rockstar" style is something new I learned recently and is a perfect example of why I hate random dating/hook ups. During a recent awkward encounter I found out the hard way, so many puns intended, that doing it "Rockstar" style means bareback. Some of you may also call this "raw dogging" which makes me puke in my mouth and promise my vagina that she's better than that. Things were going fine, not great just fine, until Tommy Lee rips off the condom, throws it against the wall and mutters something about "boring" and tries to pull a sneak attack on my peesh. Let me just throw it out there that I assume any dude I'm hooking up with has HPV, Herpes, all the kinds of Hepatitis and maybe even some STD that no one has heard about yet. I'd rather assume that a hazmat suit is necessary than have weird shit growing on my vagina. So I asserted my right as a white woman in America and threw that fucker out. I have to say I experienced more pleasure in seeing his look of fear and handing his friend his boxers and shirt the next morning than any kind of potential orgasm situation. Also you really shouldn't throw lubed condoms against a wall, it's gross. Have some respect Motley Crue.

I kind of get off on awkward situations. Watching socially awkward people flirt is one of my all time favorite things. Turn that into a reality show on Lifetime and I won't leave my apartment for the next three to four months. No joke. If I get the rare opportunity to witness this in person it's even more amazing. This might make me creepy but I give no fucks about that. Recently I learned that I don't like this as much when instead of two socially awkward people it's me and a dude who wouldn't realize that I'm not into him if it reached around and tickled his balls.

When I'm blacked out it's easy to mistake my lack of brain function with me being pleasant and possibly even friendly. In reality I'm just too fucking drunk to notice that you've had your hand down my shirt for 30 minutes. This is how "accidental dates" happen. When I think I'm just going to get free margaritas, maybe even a couple of tequila shots if I play my cards right, and suddenly freak of nature guy is telling people I'm his girlfriend and trying to hold my hand under the table like we're in love or something. I black into my life for a second, realize what's happening, don't know how to fix it, then proceed to go full Terri Schaivo status and stop all brain activity so I don't have to deal with the situation. When I wake up the next day I will ignore your Facebook friend request and feel nautious when you text me every 10 minutes. Don't get me wrong, I love attention. I'm okay with sharing the spotlight, but if I'm not at least the co-star of the show I'm secretly pissed and on the verge of choking everyone or flipping a table to put everyone back in check and remind them that I'm fucking awesome. It's easy to just hang out with a dude when you have a boyfriend because they know nothing is going to go down. Once that barrier isn't there, I feel like I have to make it clear what this night is about. I feel like the best way to handle this situation is to be honest; my go to phrase is "We're not fucking. But feel free to do shots with me and give me a lot of attention." If you don't like it then stop passing me tequila shots. Also don't try to hold my hand. EVER.

I hate that when you're pounding it out with someone you don't know so well you feel like you have to maintain a level of politeness. Especially if you're not sure if there's going to be a round two, or if you might want to let this person be a frequent guest on your reality show. My least favorite situation is the little engine that clearly couldn't, but wouldn't accept it and kept trying. I get it, whiskey dick happens. With the amount of alcohol I consume on a daily basis I'm fully aware of this and I won't judge you, much. But if we both know it's not going to work yet you insist on plowing away I'm going to kind of hate you when my peesh is sad and just wants to be left alone with a bottle of wine for the next 3 weeks. Also every dude I meet during this necessary hiatus hates you too. Thanks for ruining it for everyone. At least when this happens with someone I'm familiar with I can politely say "Get the fuck off me so I can drink a beer and see what's on HBO" instead of being completely silent and making pained faces until dude realizes that I'm less than not into it, I actually HATE it and want it to stop immediately. Also apologizing profusely doesn't fix it. I don't want to have to comfort you when I need you to leave so I can apologize to my vagina for letting that go on for longer than necessary.

I fully believe that the whole idea of monogamy stems from pure laziness. It's fucking exhausting constantly having to learn how someone likes their blow job, if they're a morning sex person or if they want you to call them daddy and punch them in the face when they blow their load. I imagine that after being with someone forever you know all the go to's and already have your fist clenched when they start making that weird squeal/yelp noise. It's almost like having a second job that most times pays really shitty and ups your dry cleaning bill. I wouldn't be opposed to an arranged marriage. If my mom wants to man hunt for me and convince some dude who makes 6 figures that I'll be a great wife and bear him lots of fetal alcohol babies I'm totally cool with that. I feel like in most cases I'm getting the better end of the deal. This poor bastard is stuck with me and I can stop shaving my legs and snort his epic paycheck right up my noise when I'm not injecting it into my arm. Also I wouldn't have to learn anything about anything because I'd be too fucked up to be more than a corpse. I'm calling my mother immediately, this needs to happen before I'm 30 and full blown tragic cat lady.

On the other hand, fuck it, Casual Encounters here I come. I need a drink and I haven't cashed my paycheck yet.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

once, twice, three times a train wreck.

I promise that my blogs for the next 6 months will not be about my break up. Seriously. I mean not that I'm trying to brag or anything but life has been pretty good since I went back to my trolling for dick and taking my pants off in public days. I'll be 30 soon and won't be able to post that shit on the internet anymore so I figure I'm pretty smart to live it up now and pound my way to the middle of...something. I'm not sure what happens to you after you turn 30 but I feel like something weird is going to happen to my peesh. Like it will become more selective or something and clamp shut if a 23 year-old who works at California Pizza Kitchen tries to get in there. And I like playing the cougar card every so often. I mean when else is it appropriate for me to do that weird bendy thing that only the 23 year-olds know I can do? Right? Exactly. But I digress.

I read a shit ton of magazines. Cosmo, Glamour, Lucky, Plucked (that one's not actually real but I feel like it should be); all those are sitting in my apartment somewhere. It seemed like fate that the week after I re-entered singledom all of them had articles on how to get through a break up. I tend to handle my problems the adult way, with tons of booze and blacked out hook ups, but I thought maybe I could try following a professional's advice for once. So I read every single mother fucking one of those articles. And you know what I learned? NOTHING BITCHES. It was all fucked up advice like "hang out with your girlfriends more" and "take yourself on dates and get to know yourself again." Are you shitting me? I was ALREADY taking myself out on dates when I paid for dinner every night without the mystery of "is she or isn't she" because I already knew I was going to put out. And weird, my girlfriends don't want to hang out with me and risk the chance that I'm going to have a public mental breakdown and lie in the gutter crying at any moment. Thanks for nothing you overpaid and underdressed cunts. I decided that I'm going to break down how to get over a break up with the real business. The truth hurts so if you're feeling emotionally unstable put the razor away and grab a glass of wine instead. I promise....booze fixes everything. Except an unplanned pregnancy, trust me on that one.

These are what I've discovered are the stages of a break up; so those of you who think you're with "the one" will be ready for the shitshow when it happens. If you disagree I give NO FUCKS because I'm right and you're dumb.

Stage 1:
The EPIC pity party. I'm talking lying on the ground listening to that "you beat my ass but I still love you song" from Rihanna over and over while sobbing and trying to force your dog to cuddle you when he'd rather jump off the balcony headfirst and then hobble into traffic to finish the job. This stage also factors in the moments when you're sitting in public with a friend and suddenly burst into tears for absolutely no reason. You're sitting there blowing snot into her french fries and she's fucking pissed because she has to pretend that she doesn't care and she's supportive of you when she really wants to stab you in the throat because every attractive male in a 10 mile radius has slowly backed away and now that they're not looking she would scarf down those fries but she can't because you got bodily fluids all over them. We've all seen that girl crying in her car, sitting in traffic, screaming some Kelly Clarkson song at the top of her lungs and punching her steering wheel. We've laughed and cried with this girl. Reality ARE this girl. In my case it was an Adele song and I was also chain smoking but you get my drift. Looks of pity and fear on all sides. The only thing worse than traffic? Being stuck next to that hot mess.

Stage 2:
Once the pity party ends the real party begins. I've now decided that I'm going to be so god damn fun that the fun police might actually show up at The Rape Den (aka my apartment for those of you not cool enough to know) and arrest me. This leads to Tuesday night blackouts where I wake up on Wednesday morning naked, on my living room floor, while my dog looks at me with shame and remorse and refuses to let me touch him. I may have also come to consciousness on my balcony at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning realizing that I have no pants on and the public has had full access to my upper thighs and wedgie for possibly 30 minutes or more. Who cares though? I mean what would Lindsey Lohan do? I can tell you...another line and then she'd get right back on that acid tripping horse and do it all over again. The party stage is fun but it's also a struggle when you're pushing thirty and those bags under your bloodshot eyes don't just magically disappear over a few hours. Those bitches stay with you. And I'm on a man hunt. No one wants to date the girl who is storing tequila shots on her face. Not cute. This stage loses it's appeal when you come to and realize that you've brought a grade A douchebag to your apartment and homeboy thinks he's going to stay over and cuddle. Fortunately that whiskey shot was ready to make a second appearance and nothing makes a dude bail from your apartment faster than puke. Or a positive pregnancy test sitting on your bathroom sink. FACT.

Stage 3:
This is when I decide that I am going to buckle down and really land Mr. Right. I am going to find that unicorn of a man who appreciates my sarcasm, loves my spaz of a dog, thinks my cat shitting on the floor is charming and has no problem staying sober and picking me up off the floor of bars to take me home and cuddle me and tell me I'm pretty. This stage doesn't last long because I quickly realize that I'm half in Stage 1 and 2 still and this perfect man is not going to want to date me when I have tears and vomit on my face/clothes/body/in my purse. Coming back to Stage 3 is probably a good idea. We all saw that childhood movie where they killed all the unicorns anyway. No sense in striving for the impossible.

Stage 4:
I call this the Mary-Kate stage. This is when you decide that you will stop eating and be the sexiest corpse ever. My ex will sob at my funeral when he sees how hot I became and he'll totally want to put it in me but I'll have bodyguards to ensure that nothing goes up there. I made out with a mortician once and he over shared, I know what kind of shit goes down. Someone is guarding my vagina until it's burned to a crisp in that big ass oven. This is also when you decide that you're going to join a gym, start waking up an hour early to jog, fill your fridge with lettuce and carrots and save all of your calories for that bottle of wine you have to drink when you get home from work because you can still be fun when you're emaciated. Then you realize that your booze budget doesn't allow any room for a gym membership. Also I really hate sweating in public. Almost more than I hate watching other people sweat in public. If someone's sweaty limb brushes against me it's an immediate dry heave situation. If I'm wet in public it better be because it's raining or I'm involved in a wet t-shirt contest and nailing it. Also after that bottle of wine I kind of need a burrito. It's necessary. Also let's all remember that Mary Kate is recovered now. Sort of. You know you've moved on from this stage when you wake up with an empty bag of Doritos in your bed and instead of feeling bad you're just sad that you have to stop and buy another bag on your way home from work today.

Stage 5:
Now that I've realized that I don't burst into tears for no reason anymore and that fucking song that used to make me scream and dive for the knob to my radio while swerving and possibly killing children while driving doesn't even make me flinch anymore, I've decided that I hate most men and give no fucks if I die alone.  I'm tired ya'all. I'm broke from my month-long bender and the last bruise from falling down my stairs every night is finally in that weird yellow/green stage. I don't care about impressing anyone and licking a stranger's face just because I can. I don't feel like I'm losing in this break-up war if I stay home and watch a movie and go to bed at 10:00 p.m. I also feel like if I meet a cool dude rad. If he's cool and also has pro status at 69ing and wants to share some insight into that one position where your leg is all....nevermind...that's even better. I know that the homies who stuck by me while I went batshit crazy and probably shouldn't have had sharp objects in my home will fix me if I lose my shit again.

Also, just for clarification, as far as I'm concerned...I WON.

But you can still feel free to take me out and buy me drinks. I'll split my burrito with you and insult strangers. Who doesn't want/need that in their life?