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.