Sunday, November 3, 2013

Hi, I'm Jenn and I'm better than you.

Being single again has made me realize something really mind blowing about myself. I thought self-discovery was over after age 25, but apparently the fucked up journey continues. Thank god since I really needed something more to live for.

The other night, while sadly trolling okcupid and moving onto bottle two of the cheap wine I was judged about while purchasing at Fresh and Easy, I realized that I'm kind of an asshole. Ok, time to get real, I'm a huge fucking asshole. I laughed at people for describing how they were looking for the one and hoping to find someone to give them a reason to get up in the morning. I openly mocked the dude who might be a little cross-eyed for sending me a really sweet message and trying to compliment me. I literally looked at my dog and said "Look at this fucking guy! I mean, where is he looking? I can't bring a wonk-eye home to meet the family." Yeah, those words were put out into the universe by this bitch. Even my dog didn't think I was funny. And that little bastard adores me.

Also I routinely delete messages from people for the most shallow reasons. The guy who wore a beanie that was a little too close fitting. I mean come on dude, everyone knows slouchy beanies are sexy. Otherwise you look like a dick, literally. Also the guy that seemed a little too excited to be posing with his furry fluff ball of a dog. I mean I'm obsessed with my dog, everyone knows this. Yet I kind of hated this dude for liking his dog so much. It doesn't even make sense.

I won't even look at someone's profile or read their message if the tiniest little detail about their profile picture or something they wrote seems less than awesome. Maybe it's because I think my profile is so rad, chances are I'm not going to mesh well with someone who didn't put as much effort into theirs. It is awesome though. Seriously, I'm kind of like a dating profile genius.

It's not even just the online rejections. Sometimes when a dude tries to hit on me in a bar, the grocery store parking lot, in the Taco Bell drive-thru, I roll my eyes so violently that I'm pretty sure I've made eye contact with my brain. I might even have hissed and/or growled at someone. I'm one plastic bag and a shopping cart away from being that crazy bitch with the smeared red lipstick that used to hang out near the freeway and assault people. Oh dear god, I've already looked my future in it's crazy-eyed face.

I can't decide if I'm such a twat because I'm attempting self-preservation and I'm trying to avoid being penetrated by another douchebag, or if I really just hate everyone and don't think there's anyone out there worthy of seeing how much I spaz out when I take Ambien and try to fight it. I don't want to die alone with a cat eating my face, but I also know I don't want to wake up every morning feeling disappointed by the person sleeping next to me.

Maybe I need to think less. Maybe I need to say "yes" more and stop making animal noises at people. Or maybe I need to take my friend Eric's advice and, "Go home with a 4, and let him have the win for once."

Monday, October 14, 2013

Are you there Satan? It's me, Jenn's vagina.

I'm going to just throw it out there and confess that my vagina really stresses me out. Sometimes we're cool with each other. She does her thing, I do mine. We're like roommates that get along but we don't necessarily hang out, giggle and compare anal bead stories. But sometimes, I really, really fucking hate her. Like I want to take a dump and hide it somewhere she can't find it and watch her confused, stressed out face everyday and secretly laugh at her pain. By this time you're probably feeling kind of bad for my peesh so let me defend myself.

1. Does she fit in with the cool kids?

Every so often I have a panic attack and experience some intense insecurity that my vagina is weird. This has led me to Google "normal and abnormal vaginas" at 4 a.m. after chugging a bottle of wine and maybe taking an Ambien, accidentally on purpose. Word of advice, NEVER Google "abnormal vagina." I seriously had nightmares for days. I'm barfing in my mouth a little just thinking about it. Also  when your gay best friend comes over and discovers that you've been googling vaginas shit can get kind of weird.

I had a particularly life altering meltdown after a guy friend told me a story about this girl he'd been wanting to penetrate and how before she even took off her panties he could smell her downstairs. This was maybe the most traumatizing story I ever heard. Worse than the time my friend texted me that she'd been penetrated in both her holes by two different people in one night and felt like a double-stuffed Oreo. Re-reading this makes me realize how fucked up the people I surround myself with are. Awesome.

Anyway, all I could think about the rest of the night was if some dude had told that exact same story but about my lady parts. Is it like when you have constant B.O. but you can't smell it because you're immune to your own stink? Then I started thinking about all the other weird things that could be going on down there and every dude who'd been all up in my business was just too polite to be like "Hey, what the fuck?" So of course I decided it was completely necessary to text all the people in my phone that had been lucky enough, or smart enough to get me super drunk, to ride this train. Honestly I don't know what I would do if some dude that I hadn't talked to in months, or maybe even more like years, texted me out of the blue, "Hi. How are you? Also, is my dick weird?" Because that's exactly what I texted; well asking about my vagina obviously. I already know my dick is awesome.

I actually got positive feedback. Most dudes didn't even seem weirded out by my question. And the fact that three of them even said they'd come over and take a look again if I was down made me feel better about the whole situation. Except of course until I saw that one of the dudes had Instagramed my text. Thanks Will you assfuck. But the fact that I even felt that crazy that I needed gratification from some idiots that I don't even like as people really pisses me off. Fuck you vagina.

2. She's selfish.

If my vagina is unhappy then my entire life is ruined. There is no fun to be had if something's wrong with her. Those tampon commercials where all the girls are skipping around and wearing all white and holding hands and shit? That is not real life. A man made that tampon commercial and I hope he dies in a car fire.

The true story involves a girl dressed in super unattractive sweatpants, sobbing into her dog's fur while he struggles to get away and then forcing everyone nearby to watch Never Been Kissed over and over until someone slips her a muscle relaxer to make the hell end. Put that on primetime and suck it.

Also if she decides that she wants to have a gentlemen friend hang out in her for a little while all common sense immediately falls out of my ass. Suddenly you find yourself in the front seat of your Yaris honking the horn with your ass and pretending that no one walks through a parking lot at night. Or all I want to do is lay in my bed and watch Snapped but she forces me to make myself attractive so she can try to get it in. See, like I said, SELFISH. We're like Snooki and JWoww. Without the fake tans.

3. High maintenance like an OC housewife.

I could probably have a nicer car and maybe take a vacation but no, my vagina needs things. Because she stresses me out so much and is an attention whore I have to keep her well maintained. I really don't want anyone all up in my downstairs unless we're having an adult sleepover and I've downed a bottle of booze. However, I also don't want one of my man friends to have to excavate to find my clitoris. Thus I've become extremely comfortable with my girl Raj who rips hair off of my labia once a month. This is an awkward experience. Dudes, if you discover that a girl you're penetrating has a hairless kitty you should show some gratitude. Seriously. A round of applause wouldn't be overkill in my opinion. Imagine meeting someone for 8 seconds and then immediately letting them put a spotlight on your no touch zone and slather hot wax all up in your asshole. Exactly. Vaginas are a nightmare.

4. She's like the embarrassing uncle that gets drunk and touches everyone.

My vadge has a way of getting me involved in awkward situations. Like when my parents failed to tell me that the room they moved me into, when I decided to have a mid-life crisis and try to discover what it all means while not paying bills, had see through curtains. The last thing you want is to make eye contact with a next door neighbor when you're wearing your albino birthday suit. Thanks mom and dad.

Or the time that I thought I had the herpes and forced my friend's boyfriend who is a Murse (man nurse for those of you out of the loop) to look at my downstairs. You can't help but walk with your head down in shame when a guy who is normally so pleasant sighs sadly, says "That's an ingrown hair. Clearly." and then asks you not to hug him until you put your pants back on. If I had a penis this would never happen. Or I'd already have waved it in everyone's face so it wouldn't be a big deal if I put it on the kitchen table during a game of flip cup. Bad, bad kitty.

I know I've been throwing a lot of shade in the direction of my basement. I mean I guess I should be grateful that I don't have one of the nasty boxes that showed up during my Google nightmare. Also I've seen a group of teenagers scream when they saw an African American vagina because they thought it was STD ridden and/or burned beyond recognition.

Maybe I'll learn to appreciate her. Ugh, there she goes answering my text messages again. Son of a...

Saturday, October 5, 2013

here hold my purse, and the rest of my baggage.

I've often made the argument to friends when they cry over a few dozen bottles of wine that they're too fucked up for a relationship and there aren't any guys out there who want to put up with their bullshit that it isn't true. My go-to is that everyone in our age bracket has baggage and has at least two crazy exes and a handful of restraining orders, so of course there is someone out there who can handle our type of crazy. Lately though I've had less and less inspiring words to say. I think I might have resigned myself to dying alone and I might truly hate people. I joke about it all the time, but I might actually just be done with the human race. Don't bother passing your Xanax prescriptions this way ya'all. That's like candy at this stage.

Obviously I care about my family and my friends. But everyone else? Meh. The other day when I was buying some hummus and kale, hummus being wine flavored and kale being Cheez-Its, the dude working the case register asked me if I wanted to donate to knee cancer or some shit. I actually was offended. No, I did not want to donate $5 to knee cancer and why are you all up in my shit? A year ago I would have donated $5, wrote my name super pretty and drawn a big heart on the the little card thing they give you, and felt all kumbiyah and shit towards mankind or whatever. Now I just don't understand why this guy is talking to me and I've decided I'm ordering everything I need in life online. People are just, unnecessary.

I think the moment when I decided that I just didn't feel like people were worth the effort was when my last ex said that since we'd already been together for 6 months he just felt like he shouldn't have to try anymore. Honestly, what the fuck does that even mean? That sounds like something you'd say about a video game. You try beating it for 6 months, that weird monster with the three tits keeps killing you in the 23rd level so you just decide, fuck it I don't want to try anymore and play a different game. Can you just decide one day that you're going to stop trying at your job? Do you stop loving your family after a few years because you "have them" now and don't need to try anymore? The fact that people actually feel this way is really depressing. If I had feelings, I might even cry about it.

It's probably my abandonment issues haunting my vagina but I always manage to find the guy that either doesn't care about anything, or the guy that cares about all the wrong things. Like the guy that doesn't care if he gets to work on time, or has that 6th beer when he knows it's a bad idea, or says that really mean thing that he knows is going to make you cry but does it anyway and then gives a half-assed apology. Man, I fucking LOVE that guy. Seriously, if you're reading this call me.

Even worse is the guy that talks about how much he cares about his family and friends but then texts while you're trying to tell him how you're worried about losing your job or convinces you that you're only fun when you're super stoned because you won't hold him accountable for being a fucking child. That guy is super awesome. Here's hoping he dies in a car fire. Joking, maybe.

What these two common breeds of worthless human beings have in common is the self-righteosness. Why does the world owe you something? Did you cure cancer? Because it definitely wasn't knee cancer since Ralphs is still trying to stop that. Did you save a hundred orphans from a burning fire? No, you have not. I'd say the only worthy thing you've done is not procreate successfully. So congratulations on that.

But thanks to these awful human beings I can't be a real person. Currently I'm talking to a really decent guy. He texts me just to see how my day was. He buys me pizza and whiskey and finds some really awful stand up to put on when I've had a super shitty day. He wants to hang out with me all the time. And I can't deal with it. I bail on plans. I wait an hour to respond to his texts. I do all the shit that I hate. I know I should feel shitty about it but I don't feel anything. I just shrug my shoulders and watch another episode of Boardwalk Empire. Which probably also isn't great for my mental health since EVERYONE DIES.

In all actuality I don't know that I can convince myself that people are decent and there are good ones out there. Maybe I should just start being pen pals with prison inmates. Obviously all prison inmates are just misunderstood hot dudes from biker gangs right? Shit I hope I still have some of that stationary with my name in flowers...

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Your competition is a 20 pound terrier mix. Good luck to you.

The long-running joke about singledom is that if you want to die alone and a virgin (at least vaginally) get a half-dozen cats. Maybe start hoarding some items on your body also, like moles and weird growths that Web.MD can't identify. I say if you want to die alone, albeit after many men have seen your lady parts, adopt an obsessive dog.

I'll say it, my dog has ruined me as far as relationships go. No living dude can ever compete with the following characteristics he posses and that I've become accustomed to during our 16 year (yeah that's right mother fuckers I've kept this creature alive for 16 years, I'm a boss) relationship:

1. Complete devotion. 

Even if I walk outside for 5 seconds to throw out an empty wine bottle or get a closer look at the neighbor's friends to see if they're underage or not, when I walk inside my dog acts like he hasn't seen me for 35 years. I mean I get the full body shaking, at any moment he can piss and/or shit himself, and he throws his body into my knee caps until I acknowledge his existence. I don't even have to touch him or give three shits that he's assaulting my lower body, he just wants to know that I know that he's fucking stoked to see me. 

He'll also follow me from room to room all day. He's an old son of a bitch but be damned his arthritic hips and failing eyesight, where I go he goes. I mean true devotion is when you're reading your Kindle in the bathroom for 45 minutes and when you walk out little man is lying on the floor directly outside the door to escort you to your next location. 

I mean the odds that I can find a dude that will attack my body and lick my face obsessively the minute I get  home from work everyday and lay on the floor outside the bathroom door while I'm having an exorcism seem pretty slim. There truly is no modern romance. 

2. Morning breath? So about it. 

I'm pretty sure my dog loves me more when I'm at my most unattractive. When I put on a pretty dress, shave my legs and throw on some hooker heels he's really not too impressed. He can't be bothered if those hooker shoes could end his life if I pre-party too much and stumble on his unsuspecting body. But when I wake up so hungover that I think I might die, with a little vomit in my hair and morning breath that could wipe out a poverty-striken village he wants his mouth on my face. Literally tongue in my mouth. I wake up to him staring at me adoringly and there's no way he's trying to avoid a morning cuddle session. There's no dude in the world who wants to touch this after a night of belligerent debauchery that ends with a back alley puke session. 

3. We don't have to talk about it. 

Obviously in relationships you have to have those "check-in" conversations every so often. Usually they involve yelling or tears, or my favorite when there are both of those things. Clearly I am always involved in extremely healthy relationships. If I yell or cry my dog doesn't need a rational explanation for why I am very obviously losing my shit. All he wants to do is sit in my lap and lick my face until it's all better. Find me the dude that doesn't ask me to explain why I fly off the  handle every so often and I will put a ring on it immediately.

4. Judge Judy, non-aggressively.

When I drink too much my dog judges me. There is a photographic evidence of his judgement.  Christmas Eve circa 2010 I decided to polish off several half-full bottles of booze, take off my pants in front of my entire family, try to bone someone's friend that made the mistake of crashing our holiday festivities and then passed out in the guest room with a full drool stain happening. The next day I woke up to a picture texted to me of my dog standing over my corpse with the most disappointed look I've ever seen on a creature's face. If a boyfriend had looked at me like that I would have told him to go fuck himself and let me live my life. Most likely screaming YOLO in his face and then cup checking his best friend on my way out. But I felt actual shame that I had disappointed this thing that loved me so much.

Let's be real, the less I drink the less likely I am to make a poor decision and text that dude with the porn stache that I met at the bar a few weeks back. Which means it's more likely I will die alone. By this point there is no way you can deny my theory. Unless you hate evidence and hard cold facts. Which probably means you would make an awesome jury member.

I love my dog, don't get me wrong. I mean I'm just as obsessed with him as he is with me. But I think after he's no longer my number one boo I should probably adopt 6 more cats. I feel like a cat is the perfect animal to set you up for being in a relationship. He'll ignore me, refuse to touch me when I look unattractive and turn around and bite the shit out of just when I think we're bonding. Animal hoarders, here I mother fucking come. Set your TIVO bitches. 

Monday, June 17, 2013

whatever, send me a dick pic.

You may remember how circa 2011 I created an okcupid account? If you don't fuck you, go back and learn a book. If you do, you're clearly winning at life, you'll also remember that it scared the shit out of me. It got to the point where I actually put tape over my webcam, even though I'm not even sure how to turn the fucker on, because I was pretty sure longdongiwish69 was watching me while he message bombed me telling me he thought we were soulmates. He probably would have gotten further with me if he'd just point blank said "I want to meet you in a dark alley and sexually assault you behind an abandoned rape van". I always give points for honesty. After the third message letting me know that stalker dude was trolling a nearby Long Beach bar just to see if I might go there I decided to ditch the profile. Fortunately I was soon pounding it out with my neighbor so I really didn't need to TFD online anymore.

All of this is just to premise my announcement that I'M BACK BITCHES!! I resurrected my okcupid account and I'm not sorry about it. If anything it will fulfill my need for attention and allow extremely unattractive or socially inept men to tell me that I'm beautiful and (fingers crossed) masterbate to my pictures. Don't judge me. You donate money to the homeless I let unfortunate men beat off to my pictures; let's just call it a draw and say we're both humanitarians.

I'm not assuming I'm going to find my next ex-boyfriend on there. But I do have to say the best part is the sexually explicit messages that entertain me for minutes. Exhibit A:

I would love to tie you down to the bed and rip your clothes off with my teeth. Licking every inch of your body till underneath your ass is a puddle of your sweet pussy juice. I would lick up every drop as I untie your arms and bend you over as I spank your ass a nice cherry red. While your pussy is still dripping I would slide my fingers into you as slow and as deep as I can till I find yourng spot and massage it nice and hard. Making you scream as you come closer and closer to squirting. And when you can't 
take any more I would pull my dick out and fuck you as hard as I can pulling out just as you squirt so I can catch every last drop in my mouth.

Alright, let's analyze this bitch. First of all, if your name on a dating website is "nerdywhiteboy69" you are never getting laid. Not even by a chick with a beard and 3 foot long labia. She's busy. Also, what the fuck is a "yourng" spot? I don't know if I have one of those but now I feel like I need to call my doctor and find out. Having the urge to call your doctor after reading a sexually explicit message is not sexy. You lose. But thanks for hoping I might take your virginity. 

I also find it intriguing what kind of information people put on their profiles. Honestly my vagina shuts down the second I see the following words: "foodie", "introvert", "romantic", and "sensitive". Guess what? I. don't. give. a fuck. Oh you're a foodie? Great, you like food. Everyone likes fucking food you asshole. Well except Mary Kate and Demi Lovato after she gets dumped. But that's neither here nor there. Also "sensitive" means you're a little bitch and "romantic" means you're going to want to play some John Mayer bullshit and tell me how pretty I am when I just want you to put your mouth elsewhere and turn on some B. Spears. 

I'm wondering if I should put on my profile that my vagina doctor told me I had a great looking cervix. Is that what dudes are looking for? I guess it probably puts me a notch above someone with a scary looking cervix or that previously mentioned chick with the beard and crazy long labia. Alright, it's going on there. I should probably also put that I won't do anal until there's a ring on my finger. Just to prevent any nerdy white dudes from getting their hopes up. We all know you twatbuckets can't afford an engagement ring. 

Turns out that my best matches are large black men. Is it because I'm sassy? I once had a friend tell me that the first time she met me she assumed I had a large black boyfriend. She was shocked and appalled when my skinny little white boyfriend walked in. Looking back I kind of wish I had been dating a large black man. He probably would have paid for at least half of most things. It has to be because I'm sassy. I mean the okcupid people don't know I have a pretty awesome ass. Or maybe they do. Son of a bitch, I'm putting that fucking tape back up. 

Thursday, May 9, 2013

if you can get me out of the gutter you can get it in.

I hate dating. I hate dating more than I hate cancer, teen pregnancy (which actually if there had been a "16 And Pregnant" show when I was 16 I would've been ALL over that), animal abuse and the lack of new Intervention episodes. If they made a bumper sticker that said "Fuck Dating" I'd probably have one. Unfortunately unless I want to die alone with 18 cats, dating is inevitable.

Basically the idea is that you're supposed to be on your best behavior on a first date. You want to seem like a put-together, classy, bring me home to meet mom and she'll love me kind of girl. Well I've decided FUCK THAT. Clearly squelching my inner trainwreck has gotten me nowhere. I haven't found the Kurt Cobain to my Courtney Love because my Kurt has been more like Hugh Hefner without Viagra....BORING and sad. Sad like when you drop half a pizza on the ground and you know you can't pick it up and eat it because a homeless person probably shit in that very spot. I'm not saying I want the male version of Amanda Bynes, though I do want to live inside her body and hear those fucked up voices in her head, but I do want someone who can appreciate a girl that can vomit after taking a whiskey shot and still go back to the bar to finish her vodka tonic. Never leave a soldier behind. Especially when that soldier is vodka. Because I want to find a partner that can outlast my 6 month curse, I plan on being my absolute worst, hot mess self to see how much they can handle immediately. If you can't handle it, try The boring people can follow their dating rules and I'll follow mine.

1. Show up "hangry".

When I'm hungry it's pretty similar to those Snickers commercials. Except I turn into a god damn velociraptor and I will rip your fucking head off and eat your insides. This is something future partner in pounding should know. That way they'll be smart enough to present me with a breakfast burrito in bed so I don't slit their throat for snoring in my face all night. And bacon, don't ever forget the bacon.

2. There is no sugarcoating, it's brutal honesty all the way.

If you ask me "why are you single?" you better make sure you just ordered a fresh drink because I'm going to tell you everything. I'm going to tell you all about my Daddy issues, my abandonment issues, my unprompted jealous rages, my unmanageable insecurities, the way I hate when people eat loudly; to put it bluntly, all the Amanda Bynes and Lindsey Lohan issues rolled into one. I'd rather just put it all out there so when I'm crying in a gutter with a 40 you'll know it's probably just because my dad never loved me and someone told me I suck at blow jobs once. Just tell me I'm pretty, put a straw in my bottle and hold my hand when you drag me home.

3. Look at me. No seriously, you better fucking look at me.

In the past I've pretended that I don't really need that much attention and I'm one of those cool girlfriends that has their own life and they're too busy to answer their phone or whatever. I do have my own life, BUT I'm still going to need you to text me obsessively and post pictures of puppies on my Facebook wall with a link to where you can buy them for me. I don't care if this sounds crazy. Crazy people make awesome girlfriends. Look how happy all the husbands on the Real Housewives show look. The ones that aren't dead I mean. My future boo needs to know that I require his undivided attention like a jealous girlfriend who's best friend you drunkenly fisted and your brother played the youporn video at Thanksgiving dinner. Yup, it's like that. I'm always busy. But I'm still gonna need those texts messages.

4. I'm not paying. Fuck feminism.

I have weird pride issues when it comes to money. I'm pretty sure it's because my mom has always worn the pants and she'll cut you if you try to pay for anything when she's around. But I've learned the hard way that throwing down the wallet too early can create either a sugar momma situation or the dude  decides he wants to keep his balls intact and stops reaching for the check every time. I don't mind footing the bill, but I also really enjoy buying slutty shoes (note: this also benefits you) and I can't do that if my credit card is full of korean BBQ and dive bar charges. Also I don't want to have an awkward moment every time the check comes. So to make things easier, I'm not paying for anything. And I'm getting a double, every time. Problem solved.

5. I will be as offensive as possible. No one is safe.

I can pretty positively say that I have not gone one day without offending someone since the mid-90's. I guess that's why people either love me or hate me. If you have a weak stomach and morals get the fuck out. Ain't nobody got time for feelings. To make sure baby daddy can handle it the following conversation topics will be broached on the first date:

a) Terri Schaivo. I will refer to anyone that displeases me as "Terri" or "Schaivo" or "T Shy", whatever. If you look horrified, "Check please. Oh no, slide that right over to boring dude, thanks."

b) Abortion/kicking babies/maiming children. I might say something like, "Is that a wire hanger in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" Or I might tell you that I'm in a bad mood and want to kick the cute little baby in the booth next to us. If you get a tear in your eye and gush about how much you love your nieces and nephews I will fuck the weird guy at the bar. Right in front of you. Put it on youtube. I'm willing to take one for the team, literally, so you can stop being bland.

Also I will curse constantly and not be sorry about it. I'd rather just get it all out there so you aren't mind fucked when I have a bout of road rage and call the old lady in the Pontiac a dried up old cunt bag with nasty wrinkled labia. If you can't handle it, leave me with my drink and the dude with Tourette's. We'll be just fine.

6. You will hear all about my exes and why I will never meet any of yours.

The only way to understand why I take no shit and give no fucks is if you hear of my tragic dating history. If you read my blog, we can totally skip this part and go right to foreplay. Also I plan on making it very clear that if you bring any of your ex-girlfriends around me, I don't give a fuck if it was your kindergarten girlfriend and she hasn't shaved her peesh in three years, I will kill her and you. Taking the high road? FUCK THAT. I prefer to wallow in the gutters. I can guarantee that you will never meet any of my exes. Mainly because they're all dead. I mean, missing. Allegedly.

Bottom line is the only people I keep around are the ones that have experienced me at my absolute worst. They have pictures of me barfing in bar parking lots. Or running pantless down the street. Or throwing Obama signs at parked cars. Or kicking a naked dude out of my apartment at 3 a.m. Or ugly crying because another stupid boy metaphorically stomped on my chest. These are my people and I love them. If they can appreciate me at my trainwreckiest, then so should any dude I let penetrate me.

Monday, April 29, 2013

you're disgusting...tell me I'm pretty.

I'm back biiiiiiiitches! I know you've missed my foul mouth, promiscuous ways and ability to make you feel weird things in your tummy and your crotch at the exact same time.

Clearly I'm single again. Life just isn't as interesting and worth writing about when I'm coupled up. Sad right? But I'm going to say that's more a reflection on the dude than me. I stay awesome. Always. I just think it's weird to blog about a penis that's entering me on a frequent basis. Don't worry though, no one's safe when it comes to these things.

One of my favorite things about breaking up with someone is when everyone starts finding out and people choose sides. For most people this process is probably fucking terrible and they cry and feel sick and watch their Facebook friend numbers dwindle and contemplate taking a Whitney Houston-style bath. I, on the other hand, revel in this uncomfortable process. Obviously the people who were my friends first pick me. Mainly because they are smart and like hanging out with someone that could strip down or run into a tree at any moment. His friends pick him because they're too scared to admit that they like me better. It's the people that met us when we were together that have the dilemma. They don't realize it but I am watching them like a mother fucking hawk. I notice every Facebook status they like and count the numbers. Today, I got three. He got one. That's another win for me you poor bastard! I can't even describe the immense amount of pleasure when the "You were always the fun one" and "I like you better single" and "I never got to put it in you and I'd like to now" texts start rolling in. This is my drug. If I could snort them or inject them, I would. And I would refuse the help and NEVER go to rehab. Ultimately I'm not losing anything. I keep what I already had. But, when I gain a new drinking buddy who CHOSE my side, weren't forced into it, that's gold people. Pure fucking gold. Or some crack, whatever does it for you.

Another thing that makes me not hate everything in the world is the "new girl at school" period that lasts for about a week or two after you become single again. Suddenly you are more popular and interesting than a girl with three tits and the ability to piss a fabulous pale ale on command. All of a sudden the dude you tried to make out with for three years at the dive bar who developed a spidey sense and exited the bar through the back the second you walked in the front maybe wants to make out. He might even want to buy you a burrito at the taqueria and pay the tip, just the tip, on the margarita at the bar afterwards. And then that other dude that would ignore your drunken texts asking him if you could rub your face on his facial hair because it looks super soft starts to like the idea. Now there's nothing else in the world he'd rather do than rub his facial hair on your face. With or without your shirt and pants on. Though let's be real, clearly pants off. Totally. Even better is the nice guy that trolled you for 5 years, gave up right when you decided that maybe you were ready for the nice guy and showed you pictures of his new girlfriend who is almost as cute as you and obviously 100% nicer and less shallow. Of course now he's single and decides that he wants to put a ring on it and have all of your babies. Like a male seahorse. Which if it was possible I'd be all kinds of down with. I plan on reveling in all of this because in a week it'll be over. They'll realize that I'm planning on going back to crossing items off my "Pound Bucket List" and I won't be ready for just one penis in my life for a good while. I wish I could huff the attention and then store some of the remnants in a jar and take a little bit when needed. Oh well. I'll take the random feel-up from the drunk guy at O'Connells and call it a win.

I've also decided that I'm not going to apologize for reveling in any kind of attention I get from the male species, even if it's gross. Just because I wouldn't let you penetrate me doesn't mean I don't want your undivided attention and adoration. I actually like it more because I don't have to give you any type of response. I've let weird old dudes cop a feel. I feel like it's harmless because we all know their penis no longer works. It's like a sad hose with a crink in it so water doesn't come through anymore. Let the guy enjoy his last days a little. He'll probably be dead within the year. Also, there was a girl with much bigger boobs a few stools down from me and he didn't molest her. Another win for me. The 19-year-old kid bagging my wine at the grocery store? I'm not going to touch your penis. But am I going to act all coy and wink when you hit on me? Hell yes I am. And then I'm going to avoid going to that store for the next month so you don't actually try to ask me on a date. If you still live with mom, ain't nobody got time for that. We can't pound at my house because my roommates birthed me. Double standard I know, but I give zero fucks. I prefer to be admired at a distance by the under aged and unemployed.

Basically I am going to take maximum pleasure in every trolling for dick text message I get for the next few weeks. I won't even be offended if a dick pic or two come rolling in. I'm always interested in what's going on down there.

Also if you've decided to pick my side you made the right choice. If you weren't sure then read the rest of my blogs. Enough said.