Monday, August 31, 2015

it's like the real housewives of long beach. with cats.

Living alone, I’m not counting my furry roommates because they are senile and possibly autistic rendering them incapable of normal social interactions, might be turning me into a weirdo.

You never realize what deviant behavior hides inside your body until you live by yourself and you can let your freak flag fly. When I had roommates I was tempted to do gross things, like poop with the door open or drink a beer while pooping or maybe even finish that Chinese food I was eating that is causing this poop to happen while pooping. But obviously you shame yourself and close and the door and leave your beer and kung pao chicken in the kitchen so your roommate doesn’t think you’re fucking mental. Maybe you even keep it super classy if your roommate is a one-night stand that refuses to leave and you go poop at the Starbucks down the street. With the door closed and before you order your coffee so you’re not one of “those” people. By “those” people I mean who we wish we could be.

I’ve off and on had roommates. Prior to my current situation I lived with two roommates, some people might call them my parents but I don’t really believe in titles and quantifying people that way, and it kept me in check. Sometimes I wanted to not bother brushing my teeth or washing my hair or putting on pants all day. But I didn’t want the looks of judgment when I walked by smelling like a dirty diaper with my butt cheeks hanging out. So I did the damn thing and put on pants and brushed my teeth and maybe even showered. Unless it was Sunday. Then fuck that. You can’t ask that much of me on a Sunday. I also never let dishes pile up in the sink, and threw remnants of smelly food away outside to avoid ever having it cross my roommates’ minds that my vagina smells like raw salmon, and I kept my ass cheeks under wraps during business hours.

But now that I’ve been living alone for about 8 months, shit has gone downhill. I know I’m not the only one. I’ve had a friend describe how she ordered an extra large pizza, ate half while lying in bed, went into a food coma, woke up hours later and because the pizza box was still nestled next to her, ate the rest of the pizza. Bitch ate an ENTIRE extra large pizza. Crust and all. Would she have done that with a Jax Teller look alike sleeping next to her? NOPE. She would’ve pretended she was full after 2 slices and then gone to sleep hungry after having “I wanted more pizza” hate sex with him. Because that’s how a lady acts.

Another friend told me that he can only do household chores if he’s butt naked. Vacuuming with pants on? That’s fucking stupid. Bleaching the toilet while wearing a shirt? FUCK THAT. We’re doing this how we came into the world. Naked, covered in weird white shit and blood, and possibly screaming and crying. I picture the screaming and crying coming in when a little bit of bleach splashes onto his taint during a vigorous toilet scrubbing. It’s bound to happen. It’s science.

The best is a friend who had lived alone for years. The shit that has gone down in her apartment would make a show combining Intervention and Hoarders look like a day at Disneyland. I love her but she has problems. Her boyfriend was forced to move in with her for a few months after his apartment was infested with bugs, or prostitutes, or something undesirable. She called me panicking because she knows she’s a disaster. I told her to ignore all of her instincts and don’t do ANYTHING she normally does. For example, I’ve seen this bitch pick up a piece of pizza that fell face down on cat fur covered carpet and eat it. I get it, pizza is amazing and a piece should never be wasted. However, if your cheese has fur it’s time to walk away. Things were going fine until about 2 weeks in. She ignored me and ordered pizza after I strongly warned her against it. My beautiful friend dropped a piece of pizza (clearly she has hand-eye coordination issues) which resulting in the pizza interacting with some cat litter, and she ate it. Her boyfriend claims he heard crunching. You should not even be doing this ALONE but in front of another person you’ve hit your bottom. Honestly, I don’t think either of them have recovered. He may have even just lived in his car until he could move back into his apartment. I’m not mad at him. I still have nightmares about the cat litter crunch heard round the world.

I don’t think I’m as extreme as cat litter crunch, but there are things I catch myself doing that cause me to look around my apartment to make sure no one saw me. For example, when I got a new vacuum I was really excited. This is what single and 30 years old looks like, if you weren’t aware. Splooging over a new vacuum. This is it folks. Of course vacuuming is only exciting if you’re playing 80’s Madonna tracks and singing “Like A Prayer” like it’s the only way to save your life. This is what was happening in my apartment at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday. You don’t do this in front of other humans. You might vacuum in front of other humans. You might even sing a little bit. You DO NOT vacuum while aggressively dancing and sing so loud that someone two floors down, OUTSIDE, says “God damn” when you’re finished.

Or how about that time I put a bag of CheezIts back in the box upside down and when I grabbed them later to take to them to bed as my substitute for sexy time the bottom of the box opened up and I left a trail of CheezIts. I realized half-way back to bed what was happening and just let it be. I couldn’t be bothered with cleaning them up. No one was going to step on them. Also I might need to go back for them depending on how much I lost.

I might even now address inanimate objects in my house. It’s possible, once or twice, I’ve looked at my microwave and said, “Well ain’t that some shit?”. Or I’ve commented upon opening my refrigerator, “What in the mother fucking hell is happening?”.  Now I don’t expect my microwave and refrigerator to respond to these rhetorical questions. But I am ashamed to admit that if they did, I wouldn’t even be that freaked out. I told you. It’s gotten fucking BLEAK up in this bitch.

I don’t want my future one night stands reading this to get scared. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m unfuckable. I would die before it came to that. Seriously. Over the cliff Thelma and Louise style with my dog and cat (because they would never want to live without me) screaming Demi Lovato’s “Cool For The Summer” at the top of my lungs without pants on. My exit from the world would be god damn magical.

For real though, I don’t have things living on my body like the hoarders. There are no cat carcasses under my sofa. In fact, my apartment is ridiculously clean because of my cleaning/Madonna/80’s songs obsession. Also I’m maintaining all the necessary orifices. I literally just had hot wax ripped off my lady parts and my ass crack yesterday. (Note: Getting waxed in 100 degrees is NOT the business. Someone better hit on me after all this effort. I’m not fucking kidding.) The transients sniff my hair when I walk by them so I know I’m also nailing it in that respect as well. A drunk guy even said to his friend, “I’d fuck her” when they stumbled by me last night. He could have been talking about my dog, but since he’s not here to ask I’m taking that win assholes.

I guess I should probably force myself into more human interactions. It probably wouldn’t ruin me to make eye contact with people in Vons instead of staring straight ahead and pretending none of this is really happening. Or grabbing a drink at a bar where other humans are instead of chugging a bottle of wine at home and harassing my poor blind cat. Then again, my neighbors probably REALLY need to hear my rendition of “Bad Blood.” Seriously, you guys. I’m KILLIN IT. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

Bye Felicia. No seriously Felicia, get the fuck outta here.

My pact with my dog to abstain from dating in 2015 is going pretty well so far. In general I don't believe in abstinence as a cure for anything. I mean that's why we have condoms, meds, rehab centers, and Lindsay Lohan right? So we can do what we want but try to avoid splooging out a baby behind the gym at Junior Prom and passing around herpes of the rectum. Also we have lots of ideas for staying out of prison while not completing our community service thanks to my all-time favorite ginge.

I decided to put the needle and spoon away and just say no to dating in 2015 for one simple reason: I'm a fucking nightmare. I'm not responsible enough to make good choices. If you look at my track record of the last few years it's consisted of pounding it out with the emotionally damaged, borderline homeless, penile challenged (aka: "Is it in yet?"), emotionally retarded, almost jailbait, and a few whiny motherfucking baby bitches. I'm throwing up in my mouth just recapping this shitshow. When did I eat hot dogs? Weird.

Shutting down the muffin shop and not using the eggplant emoji was probably the most responsible, adult decision I've made since all those times I took Plan B when my dog gave me eyes of judgment and tried to drag me down stairs. Seriously, he's like the unplanned pregnancy whisperer. Thank god someone else can be responsible for what happens in my vagina after 13 whiskey ginger ales.

Not dating hasn't been entirely easy though, I'll admit. I mean when the eggplant emoji disappeared from my recently used options, I felt a twinge of sadness. I haven't gotten a dick pic in months. Scratch that, my friend did send me multiple dick pics of various animals during a trip to a wild animal park. However none of those dicks were an offer so they filled no void. Pun most definitely intended. I can't use first date jitters as an excuse to pregame like I'm in college again before leaving my house. The stench of shit really is much more noticeable on my street when I'm not border line unconscious. Also the transients don't seem quite as friendly when I can see their "fuck this stupid white devil bitch" face clearly. It also sucks that I always have to do all the work, every time. No more pretending to be too tired to return the favor. And let's be real, sex with the same person all the time gets a little monotonous. Even if it's with me...and I'm a good fucking time. Have you ever tried role-playing by yourself? Yeah, shit gets weird.

The one thing that has helped me stay strong and keep this shit on lock down has been the rando dudes from my past that pop up and remind me why men are the cause of all the diarrhea and migraines I've ever had. Seriously. You bastards owe me so much toilet paper and Excedrin Migraine and we might as well throw in the booze I've consumed to pretend you never happened.

There was a dude that I mentioned a while back that I believe I referred to as The Actor. We text flirted for a couple of weeks, then in person flirted, then made out in a parking structure and then homie phantomed; which really pissed me off because that's MY game. I give a one week grace period because I'm a gem like that. If you don't text me a picture of the plane crash you survived or the pamphlet from your grandmother's funeral after that one week period, you are dead to me. So I did the normal thing after not hearing from The Actor after a week. I went to a bar, got super shitfaced and in a toast hoped he died in a car fire. And they say no one has class anymore! But of course, as I'm on my way over to The Beard's house for an adult sleepover before that shit went horribly wrong, The Actor sends a text. I can't remember exactly what it was but it was something about acknowledging I'd written a blog about him being a baby rapist. Now I can't confirm he is a baby rapist. But I also can't confirm he is NOT a baby rapist. It threw me into a rage. You missed the grace period bro! You died in a car fire that caused you much pain and suffering. HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU TEXTING ME!? I was being forced to accept the fact that this bitch was still alive. Ugh. I really, really hate knowing the truth. Also it's like you assholes have this sixth sense that a girl is getting ready to have a bag of dicks shoved in her face/head/upper body area so you need to text her and ruin her joy. NOT COOL. Once you disappear, you're supposed to disappear forever. Seriously. FOR-E-VER.

There's another dude that's been in and out of the picture for like 10ish years now. It's like this whole fucked up will we or won't we scenario. Every time I get comfortable that it's definitely won't, that son of a bitch literally comes barreling back into my life and fucks everything up again. If I'm somewhat touching the genitals of a dude I immediately question everything and generally pull my disappearing act. Then just as he's ruined my entire life...gone again. He's my herpes. With, like, year lapses between outbreaks. But when an outbreak happens, it's god damn awful. He also has that spidey sense when I'm emotionally stable (well as much as I can be) and then Tasmanian devil's the fuck out of my life. I'm pretty sure our last exchange resulted in me drunkenly recording a video wherein I tried to recreate Beyonce's "Single Ladies" music video wearing a bathrobe and possibly a fedora. My blacked out self couldn't even handle what I'd done and deleted all incriminating evidence. Blurry flashbacks are all I have. I have a feeling once I post this thing I'll be having another outbreak. Someone bring me one of those furry donuts to sit on...please thank you.

Finally there is the ex that has never gone away. Like one of those skin tags. They're annoying but it's not worth the dermatologist bill to go get it burned off. You just accept that it's going to be there and sigh when it texts you and you don't know how to respond. I'm not an overly nice or polite person. I'm not the person that someone asks for directions or the friend that you'd expect to bend over backwards for you when you've been a cunt for the past few months. I'm the bitch that will pretend to not notice that you're lost and take a fake phone call. And if you haven't entertained me in some way in months don't fucking call and ask me to help you with something. Sorry, stubbed my vagina yesterday, can't lift my arms or move my head. If an animal needs help I'm all over it. But people? I mean you can call 911, a cutey baby puppy cannot. So despite my inclinations to not really give a fuck I somehow find it in me to be sort of pleasant. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a struggle. I'm emotionally and mentally exhausted after more than 3 texts have been exchanged. For some reason though I always respond and I'm always nice. So then, of course, because I'm a female, I have to sit and analyze the conversation for anywhere between 3 hours to 3 days and try to understand why I respond and why I'm pleasant and why it even matters. During this time period I am missing out on valuable trolling for dick (TFD) time and that's just not right. The public needs me.

So to these dudes and all the other randos that I hung out with one time or made out with in a bathroom or blew in an alley or whatever, BYE FELICIA. You're supposed to be a part of my fantasy world where anyone who has wronged me has suffered a terrible death. Generally it should involve being eaten alive by tiny little spiders, or burning or having all the skin torn from your body over a several day period, or something of that nature. WHEN YOU TEXT ME I HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE YOU LIVE. I have to accept that karma is not on my side and that you're probably having fun sometimes and I don't want to.

Also stop ruining my one night stands. Seriously. Stop. I hate having to explain why "NEVER ANSWER" or "HE FUCKING SUCKS" or "HERPES" is texting me at 3 a.m. when I was trying to find my other shoe to sneak the fuck out of OkCupid date fail #345's apartment. Pretend I was eaten by spiders. You have my permission.

Oh and OkCupid, I'll see you in 2016.