Monday, December 29, 2014

Just call me Mariah Carey singing live.

I'm almost 100% positive that I'm having a mid-life crisis. A few days ago I was only 98% positive and thought the 2% could be a pregnancy. Then I remembered that thanks to Science I am micro-chipped and my womb will remain vacant always. (Dear Science, I know I tell you this all the time but I truly do love you.) I'm pretty glad I didn't have to have an abortion for Christmas. Though I definitely would have put that in someone's stocking. (Too soon?) So yes, I am having a full-blown, white girl problems, bitch fit, mother fucking meltdown, mid-life crisis. These are the sure fire signs that it's time to take a Whitney Houston bath:

1. I believe with every inch of my being that Taylor Swift's new album is my life story. Literally, its my life. This is not a joke and you can mock me because I've mocked myself for hours already. Her song about shaking it off? I try to shake it off constantly. With booze. "Blank Space"? Umm...I too have a long list of ex-lovers who would probably say I was insane. At the very least they'd say I was a nightmare and impossible to please. Same difference. (Taylor, I feel you girl.) And don't even get me started on how "Clean" is the biography of every one of my failed relationships. Minus the whole growing flowers together thing. Fuck flowers. Wait, I dated a guy who grew pot plants in his closet. Damn you Taylor, you just know me better than I know myself. I am almost 30 years old. Just wanted to throw that out there.

2. I would sell my still functioning liver (barely) to move back to LB as soon as possible so I can start blacking out mid-week again, bang bar-backs from Ireland and pretend I'm 21 years old with no responsibilities or fear of herpes. Paying rent? Manageable, I need more vodka but I have a credit card. Relationships? Dumb, a one night stand can ignore my needs and escalate my daddy issues just as easily. Getting up for work? Still necessary, but no one needs to know I threw up on the side of the freeway and swallowed mouth wash to stave off my hangover for 10 more minutes. This is me winning.

3. I lowered the age of dudes that can check me out on okcupid to 18 years old. And I reply to their "Wanna fuck?" messages at 3:00 a.m. With emoticons. (Who am I?)

4. I upped the age of dudes that can check me out on okcupid to 50. And I reply to their "Can I take you to dinner and wife you?" messages at 7:00 p.m. With dick pics from the 18 year olds. (Where am I?)

5. I've seriously debated marrying someone that I haven't talked to in 2+ years because we made a marriage pact 15 years ago and sometimes I get bored and he asked me to marry him by emailing me this romantic poetry:

"If you're down, I'm down."

Who needs a ring, a sunset, or a beautifully grilled burrito and shot of tequila when you have that kind of magic? For real though. Fuck that guy. I'm pushing back the pact to 35. By then I'll be dead or more medicated than Anna Nicole Smith and agree to anything. Also, I am getting that quote tattooed on my body so I can remember how awful the things attached to penises are next time I think I want to keep one.

6. Once it was established there would be no 2016 wedding for this girl, I immediately seriously debated adopting 45 cats and filling my studio (because cat food is expensive mother fuckers) with empty boxes for them to sleep/shit/piss/die in. Maybe even an abandoned refrigerator because Hoarders taught me cats love to live in those things. I'm still waiting for my background check from Animal Control to go through.

7. I want to sell my Yaris and buy a super fast car that would look magical sailing over a cliff at 110 mph. Just picture it. Pretty incredible right?

8. I no longer tweet Oprah for help and advice. Turns out the advice given by Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus is way more useful to my lifestyle. Who knew sticking your tongue out, eating pussy every so often and doing lines off Harry Styles' taint was the cure to all my life problems? (Thanks guys, you're the best!)

9. What truly made me realize that I've completely lost my shit and need to apply for the next season of Bad Girls Club (How cute would I look throwing some bitches weave in the pool?) was when I almost talked myself into ex-sex. I have never let an ex put it in me. I've never even drunk dialed an ex, crying while peeing in an alley and screaming "What's her name!? I'll fucking kill you! I love you so much!". The one thing I have that keeps me out of prison is pride. I have way too much pride to beg, cry or pretend someone is good in bed after they've give me the speech. (The speech consists of "You're great, I'm just not ready for a relationship" or insert some other bullshit similar to that. My favorite is when they say that and then you see them trolling okcupid or the shitty dive bar down the street exactly 4 seconds later. You know who you are fuckers. Your mother doesn't love you). But back to my official loss of sanity, I did debate dick requesting an ex. I even typed out the text. And it was good too. Just the perfect level of dirty without needing to reiterate the safe word. Then the words "If you're down, I'm down" floated into my head and I verbally assaulted my phone and fled to the nearest bottle of wine next to my bed. This was my rock bottom guys.

So friends, ex-lovers, future lovers, future restraining order recipients, and internet trolls that I hope to god I never meet: your girl is back. The one that ran down the street without pants after puking behind a bar and then tried to sleep on a couch someone left in the middle of the street? She's here. The one that decided to break every shot glass that wasn't funny in her kitchen at 3 a.m. and then screamed "Who did that?" precisely 10 minutes later after smoking on her balcony and cat calling drunk people? She's also here. Oh yeah and don't forget that classy broad that walked her dog without pants on and tried to explain to a neighbor about human rights and put a bag on top of the dog shit but promised to come back for it later. She can't wait to see you.

Put your party panties on motherfuckers. I'M BACK.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Dear Santa, stop fucking us up with your lies.

I get it, it's cool to not care about anything. Oh my fish died? Whatever, he was kind of a prick anyway and never looked at me when I tapped on the glass and yelled into his mouth hole. Oh a plane crashed and a bunch of people died? Whatever, I don't know any Australians and I need to check my Twitter feed to see who's murdering Amanda Bynes's vagina today. Not caring makes you better than those fucking losers that donate money to abused animals and cry when they read the stories about the rape and torture of females in Uganda. Seriously, get some kleenex and shut the fuck up and go start a non-profit or something.

I'm not going to lie, I've gotten caught up in the giving zero fucks movement as well. I've had a lot of friends and dudes come and go over the past ten years of my life and I smile through it and shrug my shoulders and get the fuck on with my life. But in reality, feigning indifference is not the same thing. Hi, my name is Jenn and I care about things.

I briefly mentioned last time that I was hanging out with a dude. We'll call him The Beard. We'd been hanging out for a couple of weeks. Generally when you first start dating someone you try. For me, I make sure my hair is on point, my legs are shaved, my cat eye is flawless and I haven't eaten anything that day that could come back to haunt me. (Dudes if a girl eats Indian food, lots of onions or epic amounts of greasy Mexican food on a date, you are not getting in there. Nor should you try. I've heard some horror stories involving anal and curry. You're welcome.) Dudes should probably shower, make sure your balls aren't gonna make us gag, and at least attempt to be charming. The problem is, now that everyone wants to play the "I don't give a fuck game" none of this happens anymore. I mean I still made attempts to be presentable and my legs were mostly shaved. But in reality I wasn't super stepping up my game. And The Beard made no attempts to impress me. We were both trying so hard not to care and be nonchalant that it worked. We made ourselves believe that we really couldn't give a shit. No more text banter. We attempted to hang out maybe once a week but whatever if it didn't work out. I'd leave in the morning while he was still sleeping and then realize maybe that was a shitty thing to do but neither one of us cared enough to mention it. Then one of us didn't text the other back and it was done. Not even a "we need to talk" moment or "hey, you're really great but this isn't working out." Just nothing. Not even a "fuck you".

This situation makes me feel worse than a break-up after 8 months. At least when you go through a break-up you know you tried. Yeah you feel like you want to die and the thought of getting out of bed seems impossible and you realize your dog is soaking wet because you cried all over him for hours. (Sorry Hercules, I know after 17 years of dealing with me you probably fantasize about my death and that's ok I still love you.) But when a weird dating situation ends and I didn't even make a half-hearted attempt to see if things could work I feel defeated. I can't even explain what happened. All I can think is I must be really fucking awful at this whole dating thing and I start researching local convents and practice lying about being a virgin.

Then again maybe this is dating now. Where you meet someone online and they become a caricature of a person in your mind. They're just this cartoon character that sends you witty messages and because it's basically a blank slate you can make them as amazing as you want to in your mind. When the real person doesn't match up with what you imagined, and since in your phone you have them listed as "The Actor" or "The Beard" or "The Viking" anyway, it doesn't matter if you just stop talking to them. If they just fade off into the purgatory of dudes you used to talk to. Oh well, I just got a message from letmebangyou145 on okc so on to the next!

Maybe I don't want to be a cartoon character that entertains you. Maybe I don't want to be the person who's last name you never cared to know and the girl you text when you have nothing better to do and don't wash your balls for. Maybe I want to be the person you move your plans around for and the one you want to spend your weekends with and the one you call when you have a shitty day and need to talk about it.

Change starts with me or whatever right? Well actually I think change starts with Oprah but she's not returning my texts so I guess I'll have to do it for us. (Gayle, can you please have her call me? Thanks.) Despite my inclination to throw up the iron curtain, I'm going to make an effort to give a shit. And if I realize despite my efforts I actually don't, I'm gonna put my grown up panties on and say something. This whole phantoming thing is bullshit. Let's all woman the fuck up and tell someone when we're not feeling it. You might feel sick to your stomach for a minute and get stress induced buttcrack sweat, but honestly I think we'll all feel better afterwards. Closure is the new Ativan.

So to The Beard, if you're not too busy not giving a shit and reading this, I'm sorry for faking not caring so much that I actually believed it. Also please don't give my scarf to the next girl because if she's in Long Beach I'll see her wearing it and kick her in the uterus.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Dear Facebook, what's my relationship status?

Guys, I forgot how to date. I know it sounds ridiculous, but unless Facebook tells me I’m in a relationship and shows me the picture of who’s supposed to be the only person I let touch my downstairs, I don’t really know what the fuck is going on.

Let me explain. Generally when I’m actually dating someone or god help us all, in a “relationship”, I don’t write about the person. This happens for two reasons.

Reason #1:

No one wants to hear about how my boyfriend and I had a really cozy night in eating burritos, watching Netflix and then falling asleep with our socks on. People who tell me these things are immediately rewarded with a punch in the junk. I don’t give a shit. If you and your boyfriend tried anal for the first time or he told you to use a strap on and violate his colon, that’s the shit I need to know. Which is why if it’s not something I care about, I’m not going to make you guys suffer through it. See look, I care about people, or whatever. And to be perfectly honest my last few relationships have either been hot messes and I couldn’t even tell you what happened last night because spiritually I was dead. Or shit was so boring it would have made me suicidal to read back about how much my life sucked.

Reason #2:

I feel bad writing about people I’m dating. Chances are I’m going to have good intentions and then suddenly that third glass of Merlot is going to kick in and I’ll start raging about how waking up next to him is feeling like a failure every morning and how I hate the way he chews his food and hope he chokes and dies. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but I’m so many other things I’d rather not be a liar too.  I don’t need written proof of my eventual hatred so if persons go missing my ass is munching carpet for the next 15-20 years.

Since my boyfriends are noticeably absent from my blog, the only way I can remember that I have them is because Facebook reminds me. Facebook also reminds other dudes that might want to plow this lawn that there’s an electric fence up and while I’m good, I’m probably not worth getting your testicles shocked up into your asshole. Facebook even reminds you when you started dating and when it’s time to start pulling out the costumes and role play and maybe change up that safe word that stopped working a few months ago. (The safe word is always “Yellow”.)

Thus, my dilemma. I’m kinda hanging out with a dude. We’re at that point where it’s either bang buddy territory or adopting a puppy together territory. Ha, kidding. I would never let some son of a bitch own half of any of my shit. Especially a French bulldog with one eye named Pierre. But real talk. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m not sure if I should stop TFDing (Trolling For Dick for the newbies), or TFD harder, or jump off a cliff, or join a nunnery. Basically I don’t know how casual dating works. If you hang out with someone once or twice a week is that even dating? If we are dating what are the rules? What orifices are off limits?

I’m good at being single. I know how to live this life. I don’t have to return text messages or phone calls in a timely manner. My dog can rub his asshole all over his side of the bed and no one cares. I can take an Ambien and drink a bottle of wine and drool all over myself and people still think I’m nailing it when I show up at the bar the next day ready to make bad decisions. Also if I see a dude at Rite Aid at 9:00 p.m. buying tall cans I can give him the drunk wink that wins them over every time and drink one of his tall cans at his mom’s house and debate giving him a sad HJ in his room decorated with baseball paraphernalia.

My exes would probably have some arguments against this (to them I say ASPERGER’S) but I’d also say I can do relationships. I’ll cook dinner, have enough booze in the house for both of us, I’m up for morning sex always, I’ll refrain from bitching about your pubes in my shower, if you shoot me in the eye I’ll only be mad for 10-15 minutes and I’m too lazy to try to TFD elsewhere if I have a sure deal at home. I’m pretty sure this should be my dating resume. Killin it!

It’s this whole in between situation that ruins my life. Having to worry about someone else’s feelings or feeling like I should care when I don’t hear from them or maybe drive by their house to make sure another Yaris isn’t in their driveway, THIS DRIVES ME FUCKING CRAZY. I’m capable of not giving a shit but then my friends tell me I’m being cold and heartless. But when I give a shit I get all Lisa Left Eye Lopes (RIP) kinda nuts and want to burn people’s mansions down.

My plan is to stop caring about any of this and do what I do best. Booze it up and make attractive dudes uncomfortable at bars. Seriously though, I don’t understand what’s not charming about me hitting on your and your twin and then telling you you look like terrorists and drinking your drink? Does anyone know a website where I can auction myself off as a mail order bride to Russia? Tweet me.   

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

let me tell you about the time I fucked a whole sorority.

If you bitches were worried about Ebola, gird your loins because there's another epidemic taking over the world and it's worse. Much, much worse. I mean I didn't go to medical school or anything but in my humble opinion, this shit is fucked up.

Before you go on WedMD and start overanalyzing your stool and the color of your urine (which I've recently found out is as easy as yellow urine = good, yellow poop = bad), in this case WedMD ain't gonna help your ass. The affliction I'm referring to is oversharing, also known as diarrhea of your fucking mouth.

I've noticed on the last few dates I've been on the conversation goes straight from, "What do you do?", "Do you have any pets?", to "Are you into anal beads and getting smacked in the face while I call you Mommy?". Umm...sorry what did you just say? I was trying to decide if I was ready to tell you my dog's Christian name and now I know that you're probably going to want me to wash your butt plugs post-coitus. I don't really believe in too soon, but TOO FUCKING SOON BRO.

The first time it happened I just figured this guy was socially retarded and not aware of his limits due to his less than stellar looking face. Or maybe he really was drunk off one beer and meant to say, "What kind of flowers should I send you on your birthday?". But then it continued to happen. If you wanted to know at what age he lost his virginity, what her name was, what she smelled like and every person he's been inside since; I can provide you that information on the last three dudes I've been on dates with. Even worse, they didn't seem to notice that the more they talked the faster I drank and stared around the bar to see if there was someone else I could leave with who seemed too drunk to make conversation. I'm pretty sure they thought they were nailing it.

Call me crazy but I don't need to know the first and last name and current location of every girl you've penetrated. If I asked you for a list of references, then this would seem relevant. Do you want to know about every dude who's put it in me? Maybe. But I'm sure as fuck not going to talk to you about it. I get that I'm not going to be anyone's first and everyone has a past and all of that. Also, please note that being someone's first has never been on my bucket list and I would appreciate you getting as much practice in as possible before coming in my direction. Or on me, whatever. You have a past, cool. People want to have sex with you, even cooler. However the more you talk about everyone you've ever slept with the more I decide I'm closing shop early and start to smell the STD's living inside your scrotum.

I get where the oversharing comes from; that son of a bitch called the internets. I'm guilty also; case in point this lovely blog you can't stop reading. But I feel like it's different when it's happening near your face and the words are coming out of their face. If someone doesn't like what I say on the internet they can ignore it. I can't really turn off a guy's mouth when I hate what's coming out of it. (Dear Science, please work on making this a possibility. I will give you all the HJ's ever.) Pounding it out with someone for the first time is always a little awkward if you're conscious.  I don't need that to be compounded by losing my concentration wondering what Stacey, the girl that was your first 30 second sexual encounter, is up to these days and if she severely fucked you up by pretending you were super good at oral when really you couldn't find the clitoris if it bitch slapped you.  (Dear Stacey, stop lying to dudes and fucking it up for the rest of us. Also I hope you're doing well.)

So future dates, please keep in mind that although I'm fun and open and blunt about everything, I don't need to know about every vagina your dick has lived in for a few moments. (This also includes mouth holes and b holes, thanks.) If something comes up in conversation and it seems necessary to share small details of a past pound, then don't let me squelch your light. However if more than three females are discussed on our date I will stab you. With a broken beer bottle. In the left eyeball. You've been warned.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

second dates, Christian names and dad jeans.

Dating sober is the worst thing in the world.
Since I made the responsible decision to get a fake I.D. at 17-years-old so I didn’t have to drink my friend’s parent’s shitty wine or steal PBR from the poor liquor store owners, 90% of my interaction with the opposite sex has involved my sassy sidekick, booze. With her by my side I don’t care if I make a rape joke and no one laughs. I only feel slightly shamed when I have sexual encounters with strangers at my brother’s annual Halloween party every year. Who says no to a dude dressed as Pokey with a dick hole conveniently cut out of the costume? Or the guy that every girl wanted to bone in high school who’s now dressed as Wayne from Wayne’s World wearing the most unfortunate man wig I’ve ever seen? I’m an American. Also, women’s rights and feminism and shit.

I refuse to go anywhere on a date that doesn’t have alcohol. Oh you want to go bowling? Perfect because I can order a pitcher of beer and then down a drink while you’re being cute and purchasing nachos or some other bullshit I don’t care about. There’s a movie you want to see? Awesome, I can put a bottle of wine in my purse and uncork it right when people stop texting and the silence is deafening and then I’m judged. Fuck ya’all, you know you’re just jealous you didn’t bring your bottle too. Also, family in the front, I can see your swag from KFC that smells delicious and would probably go really great with this Sauvignon Blanc. Mind your business. Oh you want to go to a bar? Fantastic. We’ll look weird if we don’t do body shots and sexually harass the server. When in Rome...

I consider a date successful if my date went from a quasi-interesting, semi-employed, 5 on the attractive scale to a super funny, intelligent rocket surgeon, equal in quirky hotness to Benedict Cumberbatch. Trust me, this is entirely possible after 5-7 vodka tonics. Also it’s still a win if I don’t entirely remember his Christian name and only referred to him as “plaid” but am fully aware that he wears dark grey boxer briefs and has either a third nipple or poorly placed mole. I mean what’s a name anyway? Fuck the government.
Nonetheless, since I had recently acquired the nickname of “One date wonder” (fuck you Erick) I thought I must be doing this whole dating thing incorrectly. I mean I don’t want to waste my time or anyone else’s, but I do think sometimes I, and the dudes I meet, make a terrible first impression so a second date is kind of necessary to decide if we want to pass out near each other at some point in the future. I decided that unless a date is TERRIBLE (I’m referring to you, dude that made me hear about everyone he’s ever penetrated in his entire life) I’m willing to take my Ativan and give it one more try.

So last week I met a dude for a drink after work. I’m not sure why he even wanted to meet up with me after I couldn’t maintain sobriety long enough to make solid plans for a few weeks. Those mother fucking two day hangovers that start the day you turn 27 are ruining my life. But finally plans were made, I had no excuse not to go since the bar was literally 5 minutes from my work and my BAC was so low I would die soon if I didn’t take my medicine (vodka). I’m not going to lie, this whole dating shit was really bringing me down. I figured at the very least I could drink heavily and then go die on someone’s couch and buy new clothes for work at Target in the morning. I’m a planner.
I get to the bar and am pleasantly surprised that this guy was attractive. Also he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt with stupid shit that’s supposed to be funny written on it or dad jeans or flip flops or a polo. All wins for me because these fashion choices by dudes ruin my life. If I can put on a dress and wear knee high boots and get hair ripped off my labia, you can sure as shit put on real shoes. Feminism.

The initial disappointment that he wasn’t a sassy, older black woman catfishing me waned and I was becoming slightly less pessimistic. I ordered my vodka tonic and switched on the charm.

For some reason I end up on dates or dating either the male version of Lindsay Lohan, or someone who doesn’t really drink at all. There is not a male version of drunk me. My friend recently described my new party style as this: “You rage super hard for 2-3 hours and you kill it. Then you just die. You’re a corpse and you never resurrect.” It must be the Norwegian in me. If someone has described you in these exact words and you are 68% employed and own a vehicle, email me. I need to know about you.

Back to my date. So after my first drink I noticed my date was no longer drinking. Dilemma. Is he waiting it out to see how drunk I’ll get to decide how DTF I am? Is he super over this situation and being polite so he can bail when I’m done with my drink? Is it 1:45 already? Am I DTF? So many fucking questions. This is why I am a complete spaz. This is the commentary in my brain constantly. Now you know about it and maybe you’ll understand why I’m making weird faces a lot and squirming uncomfortably. So I did something weird. I ordered a beer and drank it slowly. I KNOW. MIND EXPLOSION. Was that the sound of the world ending? I hope Emma Watson runs in here swinging an ax at me and being all cute and British. (If you don’t get what movie I’m referencing I’m disappointed in you) But seriously, I remembered everything and was able to repeat pertinent information back to my friends. I, just, can’t.
Turns out, I can be somewhat acceptable on a first date sober. Second date? No fucking way. On the second date I had one beer. ONE BEER. I need you to read that out loud. Take it all in, like a shiv shoved up your ass in prison. Feels uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, right? Too far? I don’t give a shit. I basically developed Asperger’s. I no longer understood social cues like I just talked about something it’s your turn now. I had to give my undivided attention to every single dog or person that walked by. I knew I was being a nightmare but I couldn’t fix it. The more I tried to not be a freak of nature, the more awkward I was. You might think I’m exaggerating but when the dude went inside for a minute one of the servers came up to me and gave me pity face and asked if I was okay and said at least twice, “Can I get you a drink? You look like you need a drink.” Yo, Judge Judy, back the fuck up! My awkwardness was palpable.

On my drive home I immediately called my friend to tell her that I was an insane person and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Her take is that when you’re sober dating you have to actually decide how you feel about the person sitting across from you. Feelings? Fuck that. I hate those things. But she’s right. You don’t have the booze barrier to make them more interesting or provide an iron curtain so no one has any emotions. It’s real life. (Dear drunk life, I miss you. Even when you pushed me down the stairs and told me I was unlovable. I know you were only trying to make me a stronger person. Call me.) Usually I just sit back and let the dude decide. If he’s into it and he’s persistent I’ll go along with it. If he’s not I’ll accept it and move on.
Now that I actually have to be an adult and decide what I want it’s foreign. I actually don’t even know what qualities I want in a person. Is that sad? Don’t answer that because I know it is. This is not a break up letter to booze. I will never give up on her. I’m just not going to expect her to make all my decisions and save me from growing up. I will definitely keep her around for those last minute decisions where I know what I want to do but need a little nudge in the wrong (but so right) direction. I also still plan on continuing my 2-3 hour rages and then death on the weekends. But I’m going to try to figure out what/who/why/how the fuck I’m doing with my life.

Note: If this does not work out you can find me at The Federal Bar in downtown Long Beach spilling drinks on the floor and trying to clean it up because they really hate when you do that. Cheers bitches.  

Friday, October 10, 2014

dry 1,547.

This was going to be a full on dude bash blog. I was going to get super hostile and write about how men are awful while vowing to retire from pussy waxes and shaving my legs and exfoliating. But instead, I'm going to say thank you. From now on when a dude doesn't call, I'm going to consider it a bullet dodged. This is why.

I'll go back to my 10 years older vegan boyfriend. I thought this guy was the coolest. I wanted to huff this guy like a computer cleaning spray can and for the most part lick his skin off his body. In layman's terms, I was obsessed with him. When I realized he was sexting Suicide Girls while I was sleeping I had to maintain the little pride I had left and ditch his hairless body. Seriously, this guy had absolutely no body hair. That should have been my first warning that shit was weird. Anyway, I walked out at 2 am, full on ugly crying and debating driving my car into the closed down gas station on the corner. A few years later I find out that he has continued to fuck everything that breathes and was still fucking 18 year olds in his late 30's. So instead of feeling bad about it, I decided to be grateful that I escaped before I contracted gonorrhea, syphilis, crabs, HPV, HIV and the crowning glory AIDS. We all know 18 year olds are iffy on the whole condom thing. And his hairless body might have confused them that he was 11 years old and it was his first time. Either way, I'd like to thank vegan dude for being dumb enough to leave his phone out so I could see his poor attempts at broaching the topic of fisting. Keepin it classy, with tofu.

Then there was the smoking hot 22 year old with the heroin addiction. Now let's be real, I was pretty impressed with myself for being the older lady tagging this hot almost jailbait. I mean it was rough trying to be cute at 3 am when I'd been up since 5:30 am and worked all day. Also a few times I was pretty certain I'd dislocated one, or both, hips trying to keep up with the shenanigans those 21 year old whores are up to these days. However the impressed looks on my neighbors faces when they saw who was causing all the commotion in my kitchen, living room, balcony, well you get the point, was so worth the muscle relaxer addiction I may have dabbled in. So was I bummed when jailbait started flaking and expected me to be fun at 5 am after ignoring me for days? For sure. Was I relieved that I started banging someone else and ignored his calls when I saw him at a bar weeks later and realized the little heroin addiction he might have mentioned once or twice had turned him into a shady ass, unattractive, unpleasant tweaker? Yes. I was probably a week away from that motherfucker stealing all the shit in my apartment and cutting out my insides to sell on the black market so he could stick it in his arm. Also I was running out of meds and my hips were just recovering. Thank you heroin for the assist.

Next up was my emotionally damaged hot mess boyfriend. I'm pretty sure Taylor Swift wrote the song "Trouble" about this dude. Fuck John Mayer, he's an amateur. Sometimes you think you want to be Courtney Love and Kurt Kobain, then you realize you're actually just Courtney Love with Kurt Kobain's corpse. Too soon? I don't give a fuck. When this shitshow didn't work out, weird right?, I was a nightmare. Having to try to be charming while blacked out was super hard and I'd lost my ability to do it. Turns out not all dudes are amused by girls that get super drunk, take off their pants and run down the street bouncing off cars. This is tragic because I was awesome! Anyway, I felt like a relationship failure until I realized that in this case it really wasn't me, it was him. I wasn't a shitty girlfriend, I just picked the wrong dude. In hindsight I've realized that no one will be able to fix that storage unit of baggage and trying to would have killed my spirit completely. So thank you to the white Oprah dude at Alex's Bar that gave me a pep talk when I ugly cried in the alley and told me I could do better because he was also a hot mess and knew it would never get better and I couldn't have fixed it. And I'm sorry dude that you can never actually be Oprah because she wouldn't have that and would murder you.

This brings us to my fun killer last boyfriend. This was the guy that your friends convince you to date because you never give "the nice guy" a chance. Let me clear something up while getting in a little of the bashing that I've been tempted to do. THERE ARE NO NICE GUYS. The nice guys are the ones that berate you for getting super drunk on St. Patrick's Day and climbing on their roommates pool table because you are celebrating your people. The nice guys make you hang out with their ex-girlfriends and convince you you're insane for being pissed about it. The nice guys stay up until 3 am playing video games and then sleep until 2 pm the next day resulting in you missing brunch. NO ONE PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER AND MAKES HER MISS BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS!!!!!! When I eventually got tired of dating someone's father and then the nice guy immediately started dating his ex-girlfriend, yeah I wasn't happy about it. However, when I recently learned that the skank was knocked up I literally did a victory fist pump and cheersed myself with a bottle of wine. If I'm going to get knocked up by someone it's going to be a biker outlaw. Not a video game playing nerd. So thank you skank for letting my ex-boyfriend impregnate you. In this case, I'd say I dodged a fucking Kamikaze plane.

Last week I went on a  date with a dude that I'd been talking to for a while. He seemed funny and his BAC was always fucked like mine so I figured if anything I'd have someone to take off my pants in public with. We went out and I thought we had a good time. Then, nothing. I was mad about it for about 10 seconds then I realized, I probably dodged another bullet. This guy was probably a baby rapist. Or a closeted vegan. Or nice. So many horrific scenarios. So instead of wishing him dead, I'd like to thank him for not calling me. I mean he probably wouldn't have had fun doing it in the parking garage on our next date anyway. That sounds like an awful time.

To be honest I don't need someone to put a ring on it. Seriously. But if one of you assholes can at least fake it until the third date so I can get laid that would be fantastic. And if you're wondering why I say the third date, that's because Cosmopolitan magazine, aka the whore's bible, says you have to wait three dates. If I'm at least following the whore's guide to life then I can still make my parents proud.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

hello, I am a life-ruiner with a huge awesome ass. nice to meet you.

I had a good day today. Actually, since I was released from prison early on Friday I've been having a really fucking good couple of days. I mean there have been a few things happening that aren't great...but in the scheme of things I didn't hate my life for a hot minute. Oh don't worry ya'all, this isn't about to get all positive and warm and fuzzy. We're not going to have an Oprah moment and hold hands and thank some dude named Jesus for all of the great things in our lives. Reality donkey punched me. And then anally fucked me with no warning, and definitely used no lube. Not even a little spit on the hand. Let's start from the beginning.

I jumped back into dating almost immediately after my last break-up. It seemed like a good idea at the time since I'd been over the dude for a month or more and judge me if you want but I'm at my best when I'm being consistently penetrated. I don't require love, just a heavy rotation of naked wrestling. The kind of wrestling where I really don't have to do a lot if I don't want. That's my jam.

Anyway, I met a dude and we started hanging out. He was funny, attentive, family-oriented and we liked the same music, art, both had some style and all of that. I don't know why it happens but I usually end up dating people I have nothing in common with besides drinking or having genitalia that fit together. It was cool to hang out with someone that played music I was super into and had style that I could appreciate. But after a few weeks I had to admit that I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to be someone's date to their family member's wedding and meet the parents and help babysit the nephews and nieces and double-date with the best friend and his girlfriend of 5 years. I didn't have it in me to try to impress anyone and be someone's everything or even something. Yeah, I get it, I'm a fucking asshole. So I told dude I wasn't into it, I was sorry, he was great and he'll find someone else blah blah mother fucking blah.

He tried to convince me I was wrong and did what we always wish a guy would do and kept texting me and calling me and trying to remind me that he was still there and into me. I ignored all of his attempts and eventually even deleted his number and blocked him so I wouldn't have a drunken moment of weakness and show up at his house pretending I just really needed to pee and then let him put it in my ear because that doesn't count. After months, he finally gave up. The power of the pussy is real folks. No fucking joke.

I guess I didn't think he would ever think about me again. Apparently he does. Or he drank a lot of whiskey and aimed all of his anger at the bitch that wouldn't love him. I got a text from him tonight saying the following:

"i still think about you and i fucking hate you because your not even that great and you only brought the cheap whiskey over and you had to leave early because you work stupid times and the only good thing about you was your ass and i hope all the fucks you meet leave you because thats what you want to happen"

The grammar is atrocious. Seriously. Siri must hate you because she ALWAYS makes sure my "I"s are capitalized.

But real talk, what the fuck do you even say to something like this? The fact that it came from a different number and I still knew exactly who it was, was like being punched in the cervix. I'm honestly not out here trying to ruin people's lives. I've had my heart stomped on to where I thought I was going to die and there was no way my body could survive without any of my internal organs working. Obviously, since corpses aren't as witty as I am, I survived. And I've never felt the need to unleash on someone months later. Yeah I might bash my exes a little in my blogs, but I consider them more like meningitis that could have killed me but I survived it and I even still have enough liver usage to continue my heavy drinking. No permanent damage here!

I guess it makes me realize that people pleasing doesn't get you anywhere. If I had been completely honest with myself I would have never hung out with someone I knew was looking to wife up when I was only looking for someone to distract me from the things I hated in my life. And maybe I should stop assuming that I'm forgettable and people won't even notice if I phantom and disappear. I haven't gone B. Spears circa umbrella vs. van crazy and assume that everyone loves me and wants to put a ring on it. But I guess I need to use my vagina instead of my heart and let people know when I'm not feeling it. Or restraining orders, that could be a good tactic too.

Now I'm going to drink a box of wine and try to think of something to say to this kid so he doesn't hate women forever and anger bang some hookers outside of a Denny's at 6 a.m.

Anger bangs happen between 12 p.m. and 2 a.m. Get it together people.

Monday, August 18, 2014

a face a mother doesn't even love.

You'll be very happy to hear that yesterday I had the worst date ever. I should've just given up when I was not that far behind and married the date rapist. But no, because I am a fucking masochist.

So I sent this bearded, Viking looking creature a message on okcupid about a month ago. The message only mocked his dislike of Mexican food and unkempt face bush. It should have been a red flag that he thought my insults were charming and admitted he was excited that I had messaged him. Clearly he didn't read my profile thoroughly enough to identify the daddy issues that require men to withhold all of their emotions so I lose my fucking mind trying to make them love me. What an amateur.

Anyway, after hours of text harassing that I found somewhat entertaining, I thought what the hell and asked him if he wanted to hang out. Plans were made to go to a little brewery so even if we hated each other at least I could shove my feelings into a pitcher of delicious craft beer. Below are exact quotes from this dude and my reactions. I hope you have booze and snacks y'all because shit is about to get REAL!

1. "I hate my mother."

 In my head I heard, "I hate my mother so I'll eventually hate you when you're old and remind me of her." I get not everyone loves their parents. But maybe reveal your Menendez brother fantasies when I'm on beer three. Maybe even beer 7 so I won't remember a word you said and therefore cannot testify against your psycho ass in court.

2. "Here is a picture of the last girl I took on a date. I think she's a lesbian."

Who the fuck does that!? I don't need to know that I'm way more attractive than the last girl you tried to penetrate. I already knew I was. And now you just forced me to pretend that I'm not disgusted by this face you shoved in my face. Sunday is not my day for pretend. Give me a fucking break. Also yes, she is a lesbian.

3. "My sister is a bitch.  I live with her."

Cool. That rules out boning at your house because I don't need your sister judging me and trying to blame pubes in the tub on me because bitch I don't have those! (Thanks Raj!)

4. "My best friend is obsessed with me and tries to fuck me all the time. Look at all the texts she's sending me right now."

It was at this point that I just chugged my beer and hoped my heart would explode. I don't even want to fuck the Viking but suddenly, because this skank is all up in my business, I feel like I should pee on the dude or something. If some dude is obsessed with me and trying to penetrate me constantly, I'm tired. I'm locking that shit down and doing yoga pants and beers in bed. WHY ARE YOU HERE!?!

5. "I've turned down sex from a lot of drunk girls."

Then proceeded to tell me about each and every one of them while I tried not to barf in my beer. Drunk girls trying to get laid, those are my people. How dare you mock them. Also I have a hard time buying this, show me the fucking receipts.

6. "I'm already drunk."

After 1.5 beers. There are no words.

7. "I always bubble wrap so I don't get AIDS."

AIDS might not get you but a Yaris driven by a crazy blonde bitch might run right through your god damn bubble wrap.

8. "Gay men want to fuck me. They like my eyebrows."

Apparently I was on a date with the guy everyone wants to get plowed by. Good to know.

9. "I don't play video games. I play board games. All the time."

Oh, well that's way better! Get me a fucking gun.

And then the final gem that really got my downstairs damp...

10. "I dated a married woman for four years. It really fucked me up."

So now we're both rolling up with a uhaul full of mommy, daddy, drunk girls, married women issues? Aw hell no. There's only room for one disaster in a relationship and that title remains mine. ALWAYS.

Moral of the story is, shut the fuck up. No one wants to hear everything about you on a first date. You talked your way right out of a parking lot HJ. Congrats and give your penis my condolences.

But guess who reactivated their okcupid account? Let the next shitshow begin!

Monday, July 21, 2014

is that my biological clock ticking or my liver screaming?

Let's be completely honest here. Being almost thirty fucking sucks. Thirty is mocking me like Regina George telling me she likes my bracelet and I really just want to punch her in the vagina.

What's mind fucking me is that ten years ago, when I imagined being thirty, I thought my life would be awesome. Like Justin Beiber getting shipwrecked on an island full of horny monkeys kind of awesome. Instead, it's not. My life is typical and normal. And that makes me want to take a Whitney Houston bath.

The worst part is the desperation I feel. I'm so desperate for a job that I don't hate that I sit at work and fantasize about sticking my hand down the garbage disposal at work and then making those cunts pay for me to go back to school to learn a trade that only requires one hand. But the jokes on them because of course I'd pocket the money and go into fetish porn. I'm almost thirty, not a moron.

Also dating has seriously caused me to up my meds. It seems irresponsible to troll on the 25 year olds with hopes and dreams because I left mine at a bar somewhere in 2008 and no one bothered to return them. But the 40 somethings wanting someone to procreate with or at the very least adopt a puppy with aren't going to appreciate pulling me out of a gutter at 6:30 pm on a Sunday. Also that ain't puppy vomit in your bad.

The worst part is that I feel like I have to try. Actually brush my hair and wear my bra that nails it and get the cat and dog hair off my clothes before I meet disappointment number 87. Also in the middle of writing this I discovered a water bug in the bathroom, completely list my shit, sprayed Raid everywhere and screamed until my roommate disposed of the body. Proof that I am completely undateable. But I digress.

So now that I've accepted I have to put some effort into it, I've also discovered that I am an acquired taste. It's been rough to accept but I am not everyone's jam. My first huge bitch slap of reality came on a date with singularly the most attractive male I've ever shared a close space with. He works on a boat, has sailor tattoos, drives a Harley he custom built, and did not want to penetrate me. That mother fucker. His disinterest was infuriating and also made me want to super ugly cry in front of strangers so everyone felt as bad as I did. But because I'm classy, I pretended I didn't give a shit and flirted with a guy at the bar who smelled like milk. WINNING.

It's also weird when I'm not into the date but Mr. Enthusiastic has already named the golden retriever Dave and is trying to hold my hand under the table. Jesus take the wheel and drive this god damn thing off a cliff. The 25 year old me would've laughed and walked out. But now I get all weird and try to give people a chance and kumbayah and all of that bullshit.

The truth is I'm a hot mess. I have a horrible temper, I say whatever pops into my head, I'm withholding but I need a lot of attention and I don't trust anyone. But once you get past all that, you should probably know that I make some life changing chicken and shrimp tacos, I know how to pour a beer correctly and open a bottle of wine while walking , and I like to solve arguments while naked.

Tell all your friends.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

there goes my amber alert...

A few weeks ago my friend texted me that he had a friend he wanted to set me up with. Two emotions came over me; diarrhea inducing fear and the kind of curiosity that gets you raped and murdered or syphilis. The fear mainly stemmed from the fact that my matchmaker friend is a fucking pervert. Trying to pee on someone is a Tuesday night for this guy. He tried to woo me once by plopping his penis on my shoulder and saying "He likes you" in a voice that mimicked every child rapist on Law and Order SVU. Fortunately to keep my STD count to 0, I slapped it off my shoulder and smiled while he flailed around screaming like a toddler. Long story short, this guy is an awful human being.

The curiosity stemmed from trolling his instagram and noting he has some smoking hot friends who look employed and bathed. Pretty much the only two standards I have left at this point. Thirty is sneaking up on me God dammit and I've had to cut things like "motivated" and "kind" out of the equation completely. Bring on the lazy assholes!

Against my better judgement I agreed. But I asked what the dudes name was so obviously I could internet stalk him to see how slutty I should dress and if I had to shave my legs all the way or just do a half ass job and show more boob. Yes, girls think these things. That's why we're better than you.

So I get the guys name, a completely uncommon name, which was rad so I didn't have to wonder if he was a 14  year old Mormon or a 59 year old Asian man. The very first link that comes up is for a sexual predator website. Fucking awesome. I prayed to any God that wasn't busy that this was the wrong guy. Clearly they were all involved in a group gang bang because this was my rapey Prince fucking Charming. My friend wants me to be penetrated against my will. I'm a lucky girl.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

that's a bad idea. I'll take two.

I'm the worst person when it comes to listening to and following advice. I hear what you're saying. My way just seems so much better.

While I'd agree for those of you that watch Girls, Hannah is a self-absorbed twat, I think she's my kindred spirit. Almost every time I watch that show I cringe and ask my boyfriend Hercules, "What the fuuuuuck is she doing!?!" But then when I listen to her explain herself, I totally fucking get it. When she talks about letting people sexually demean her, just for the experience, I get that. I mean if we all want to take an honest look at ourselves we can probably think of at least one encounter where we did something or considered doing something bordering on sexual deviance, just to see what it would be like. In case your prudish side just came out, something I haven't seen since sometime  in the late 90s, I'll share. Only because you're pretty though.

When I was 22 I met Chris. He was a tall, skinny, vegan with huge plugs, weird piercings and I was immediately obsessed with him. He was every thing my mother warned me against. He was 32, lived with his parents, unemployed, and gave zero fucks about anyone but himself. Hi, my name is Hannah Horvath and this is Adam. I was completely in love and he was amused by me. After a few months of our fucked up humpfest, he broached the topic of things we were into but didn't know how to bring up. I immediately assumed this would be the "let me put it in your butt" conversation. I found myself scooting back until my asshole was firmly protected by the headboard and cleared my throat to scream rape if necessary and hope his Mom hadn't taken her meds yet.  Instead he asked if I would pee on him.'s that? I was completely surprised. As he explained himself I realized that I was actually entertaining the thought. Like trying to plan out the logistics of it in my head. Then I realized that I was on the verge of agreeing to pee on someone so they could live out their reverse R. Kelly fantasy. Who does that!? Ultimately I decided to forego the golden showers. As a compromise I just let him put it in my butt. Ha. I kid.

When I told my gay BFF about Chris he immediately hissed and gave me the mom eyebrow. And I have to say that every guy since then has elicited the same response from him and my other bestests. But still, I shrug my shoulders, make a noncommittal noise and proceed without caution. I'm not saying I don't see the shitshow coming my way. I definitely see it. I could play out the whole Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain tragedy word for word. But for some reason I can't walk away from it. I have to let it play out. Even if it's going to lead to Whitney Houston baths and Miley Cyrus twerk and cut Friday nights.I'd rather lose big time and have the story then never experience anything and have the most boring profile ever.

I also think my need to ride the train wreck train comes from the fact that past pounds don't excite me. I've had a few past anatomy study buddies say they masturbate while thinking about someone they've already had sex with. I mean obviously they mean me. And you're welcome. But I can honestly say that I don't think about anyone I've already boned when I have a romantic evening with myself. I do wonder what Chris is up to sometimes when I'm peeing. Probably prison is my best guess. And sometimes when I'm aborting a burrito I laugh about my ex who shit the bathroom floor. There's nothing sexy about any of that. My theory is why would I fantasize about something I've done? Sorry I'm not boring. Now that I think about it, maybe I should've just peed on him.

In my older, almost old age, I'm trying to brake at the yellow lights more often. If a guy starts singing "Trapped in the Closet" softly in my ear I'm going to walk away. However I make no guarantees that if a guy on a motorcycle with a face tattoo offers to give me a ride home from a shady dive bar I won't get on that bike. Because I will. Fuck yes I will.

Friday, February 7, 2014

congrats! it's herpes!

I've been doing a lot of reflecting on my life lately. What have I learned? I've learned that I'm my own worst enemy and I stand in my own way. I've learned that being 29 is depressing so I'm going back to 25 and you can't tell me I can't. I've learned that teenage angst is adorable and endearing; almost 30 year old angst is called a mid-life crisis and that's just fucking tragic and puts you right onto an episode of Hoarders. Also I've learned that people think I'm rad; though I'm still puzzled by that. Although I shouldn't be surprised. I have the same daddy issues that cause me to crave love from people that despise me. But the most important thing I learned is that thinking and feeling suck the big one. I've decided that the only way I'll have a chance of making it to my thirties is if I limit having thoughts and feelings to twice a week. Hence I will up my meds and keep my fridge stocked with boozy beverages. Cheers bitches!

On a real note though, I ran into an ex boyfriend's mom literally two hours ago at the store. I saw her and had that moment of panic where I immediately had awkward butt crack sweat and wondered if it would be overdrammatic to slam my cart into a display and run for my life. Unfortunately in my advanced age and due to the degeneration of my liver, my reaction time has significantly increased. Fuuuuuuck she saw me and doesn't see my enlarged, panicked pupils and the bead of sweat chillin on my upper lip. Exes mom comes over and gives me the most awkward hug of my life. It was the kind of hug where you realize your ass is pushed as far back as your pelvis will allow and you keep patting their back because your limbs have no idea what the fuck they're supposed to do. At this point my entire life was sweating and I half hoped I would have a stroke. The Real Housewives of Buena Park, set your TIVO.

So we did the awkward "nice to see you" greetings. She made an unsuccessful joke that I looked much better than the last time she saw me. Sidenote: the last time she saw me I was storming out of her house at 3 am sobbing hysterically because her son mascerated my heart in a food processor. Then the awkward silence prompted me to ask the loaded question, "How is doucheface?". Anyone who says that they wish the best for the ex that butchered their insides is a dirty liar and I will punch you in the mouth. What you want to hear is that they were in an accident that made their penis unusable and they live in the basement watching old episodes of Carebears and sobbing. I see you nodding over your glass of wine.

As she geared up to answer my question the look on her face terrified me. I saw pity there so I immediately knew the words "hot wife", "adorable babies" and "beach house in Hawaii" were about to ruin me. I immediately looked into my cart and realized I was going to need a shit ton more booze. And Tapatio Doritoes. At least three bags. But as she started talking I discovered her pity was for doucheface. Turns out things didn't go so well for him. I wanted to want to run up and down the aisles highfiving strangers and kissing teenage boys. Instead I actually felt bad. I'd wished herpes, impotence, even death via car fire on this guy. Now I actually felt bad for him. Who the fuck am I?

Turns out I can't be mad at silly boys for my bad (typically drunk) choices. In fact, I should thank them all for helping me dodge a bullet. Better yet a mother fucking bomb! I mean I considered marrying someone who turned out to be one of the most awful people I've ever met. That one I won't thank. That one can burn in hell. Shit. There goes forgiveness.