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.
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