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.
No comments:
Post a Comment