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.