when all else fails, grab a pussy.

As mentioned in my previous entry, I am trying to ease myself back into the dating scene. Actually, fuck that. I haven’t eased in. I jumped in head first without even checking how shallow the water was and risking breaking my god damn neck. Whatever. Big risks equal incurable STD’s right?

Friday night I had a date with my number one internet D. I had a good feeling about this one. The dude seemed normal. He wasn’t overly attractive so I didn’t get nervous potential diarrhea about meeting up with him. Being the more attractive one always gives you a good upper hand and ensures you won’t be paying for shit. He found a bar that was totally my style, very dark so my under eye wrinkles are hidden and my smeared eyeliner looks like an on purpose smoky eye, and had decent beers on tap so I wouldn’t have to pretend that I truly believe Miller High Life is the champagne of beers. (Spoiler alert: it is not, unless you are from Wisconsin.)

Parking was a little aggressive near the bar so I had to do a drive by to circle around and saw my date standing outside the bar. Initially, was not attracted to him. But, during my extensive and tragic dating career I’ve learned that physical attraction can happen later. Or after 16 jager bombs and an ecstasy pill. I’m not going to lie, the shallow skeezy little bitch in me half considered bailing and going back home to my cat, Netflix, nacho cheese Doritos and wine; but like I’ve said before I’ve already accumulated some fucked up dating karma and I’d like to not have a shitshow date sometime in 2017, maybe?

I parked, walked up to the bar, greeted the internet D and told myself either way I’d probably have a good time. Turns out, I’m an idiot. I did not have a good time. In fact, I would have rather been curled up on my bathroom floor expelling waste from all of my orifices. I hope the internet D reads this and learns something. Because this is how you lose the chance to touch a girl’s vagina, or if you’re Donald Trump, grab a woman by the pussy.

1.       Create a scene that makes your date feel uncomfortable.

As we walked up to the front door of the bar, there was a cute little old man in a wheelchair checking ID’s. He was chatting with a couple and so I stood to the side, patiently holding my ID and waiting my turn. Internet D loudly proclaims, despite the fact that NOBODY WAS FUCKING LOOKING AT HIM OR TALKING TO HIM, “She’s with me!” and drags me into the bar. What in all the fucking fucks!? Instantly I hated this man. I am not with you. I am with her. And by her I mean anyone else in the bar besides you. That was my first impression of Internet Dbag. After this awkward scene at the door, Internet Dbag proceeds to throw a fit that someone was sitting at “his table” as I awkwardly sat by myself at a different table because who gives a fuck about what table we sit at you fucking psychopath. Literally 3 minutes into this date and I contemplated murder/suicide. Shut. it. down.

2.       Take your date to a bar that you basically live at and all of your friends work at.

It became very clear, very quickly that Internet Dbag was a regular at this bar. It was like a fucked up Cheers episode. The bartender was his best friend. Which in theory sounds great, except he was a freak of fucking nature. As I uncomfortably tried to get past the fact that I hated this dude and make polite conversation, his friends kept walking by our table and high fiving him like he just lost his virginity.  They didn’t acknowledge my presence, nor did they congratulate my vagina. Who at this point had sealed shut like a fucking dungeon. Rude. I like attention, but I don’t want to be shown off like a prized pony. I’m a person. I don’t want to hear your side conversations with your friend about your last circle jerk. PAY ATTENTION TO ME OR DIE. Also, his running commentary on what his friends behind me were doing while I was talking made me want to slice him open from throat to sternum with a fucking butter knife. This rage is real.

3.       Talk about all the famous people you’ve met.

I tend to avoid dating dudes who live in Los Angeles. Mainly because I don’t give a shit if you’re an out of work “actor” who handed Channing Tatum a water bottle once and now you think Channing Tatum is your friend. Channing Tatum doesn’t give a fuck about you. Channing Tatum wouldn’t let you towel off his ball sweat. CHANNING TATUM IS BUSY. Lo and behold, people in Orange County still think they are best friends with celebrities. Internet Dbag talked over me constantly to talk about celebrities he’s met who think he’s the tits. In summary: Iggy Pop, Hunter S. Thompson (RIP), the Descendants (the whole band) and Nine Inch Nails (the whole band) think this guy is so great they basically want to pull down his pants and kiss his ass. Pretty sure it’s more likely that I’m going to grow a third tit out of my armpit. Iggy Pop doesn’t care about you. I saw Iggy Pop perform once and almost pull his dick out and I know that Iggy Pop and I are not friends. THIS IS REAL LIFE.

4.       Start talking about our next date when I’m clearly casing my exits so I can get the fuck out of here.

My face doesn’t lie. When I’m not having a good time, it goes beyond resting bitch face. I’m pretty sure the words “I’m having a bad time” actually appear on my forehead in flashing lights. Everyone in that bar, maybe even the entire city, knew I was not having a good time. But dipshit was too distracted by his homies, the tv, his own idiocy to notice that I hated the sound of his voice. He mentioned three follow up dates. ARE YOU DUMB? Did you not notice that each time you mentioned another date I stared into my beer and clicked my feet three times hoping a tornado would hit and we would all die? No I don’t want to go to the wine bar that your friends own where you drink “$100.00 bottles of wine” and I sure as fuck don’t want to go to Big Bear with you and your family who are probably just as obnoxious as you are. I WOULD RATHER GET A COLONOSCOPY, PAP SMEAR, AND ROOT CANAL AT THE SAME TIME THAN HANG OUT WITH YOU AGAIN. Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!

5.       Mention an ex. Any ex. EVER.

I’m 67% sure I asked dude if he’d ever been married before. I might be wrong, so I won’t harp on the potential lie. But everyone, every single person in the entire world, knows that you do not under any circumstances talk about your ex. Sure you might need to mention her once, especially to say you were married before but are now divorced. But do I need to know that your ex was there that time Iggy Pop metaphorically blew you backstage? NOPE. Not relevant to the story. Do I need to know that your ex who you were only “briefly” married to is somehow the focal point of every single fucking story of your entire 40 years of life? FUCK NOPE. Next time, just do everyone a favor and immediately start crying into your beer about how you miss her because clearly you’re a tragic ass mess. I can at least then leave the bar with another dude guilt free. BYE.

6.       Brag. At all. About anything.

If you’ve done cool shit, that’s awesome. Good for you. If it seems relevant to our conversation to throw in an interesting fact about yourself, go for it. If you completely take our conversation off topic to brag about something, GO FUCK YOURSELF. Example, I was talking about the last concert I’d gone to. This guy blurts out, “I’ve been shot and stabbed.” Listen Terri (not it’s real name), no one fucking asked you. I’m slightly interested to hear how these things happened, but because you interrupted the 2 seconds you gave me to speak to brag, I will not hear your story. I will act like a child and cover my ears to not hear the words coming out of your face. I will stab my eardrums out to not hear one fucking thing you are about to say. My entire soul hates you.

7.       Refuse to accept defeat.

I tried to be polite and hold out for as long as I could on this sinking ship of shit. But eventually it became too much. I started throwing out hints that no one was touching genitals today. I declined another drink. (Breathe in, I know this is shocking.) I started yawning. I pulled out my phone and feigned surprise like, “Oh my gosh it’s already 11:00!?”. Mother fucker refused to let it go. He suggested a second location. A second location? Unless it’s a shallow grave somewhere, no fucking thanks man. When I realized that he was not going to let this not be awkward, I summoned my inner bitch, looked him right in the eyes and said, “I’m going home.” He looked surprised. Probably the same face I made when Donald Trump actually became a viable option for President. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. Is this real life? He honestly thought he was getting somewhere. If females had the same false sense of confidence that dudes have, it would be insane. We would legitimately run shit. This refusal to accept defeat created the most awkward walk to my car where I did one of those hugs where none of your body parts touch theirs and peeled out of the parking lot like I just kicked someone’s baby. Clearly, even the molestey uncle hug and peel out wasn’t an indication that I was not at all interested. Dude texted me yesterday like things were good. You guys, I just can’t.

Dudes, on a real note, us ladies make a lot of effort when we go on a date. I know I definitely down play it, but I do stress over what to wear, if my make-up looks good, what the fuck my bangs are doing, and if my ass looks video girl luscious or Kim Kardashian pregnant horrifying. Don’t make me go through all that effort just to be a douchebag. Shut your fucking mouth and listen. Don’t take me to a bar and make me hang out with your friends and feel uncomfortable. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t brag. Don’t keep trying to take the banter to a sexual level if I’m blatantly refusing to take the conversation there. I get it, you’re trying to be funny. I’M NOT LAUGHING.

I’m not giving up. I’ll respond to your message One­_Man_Party in a minute. But I’m not taking any shit. And if I’m not laughing, you’re not getting laid. So if you wanted to tell me about how you toweled off Channing Tatum’s balls, DON’T. But feel free to tell me that story about how you shit your pants in a Costco as an adult man with bills. That, I want to know about. 

resurrected dicks and catfishing that might be more like goldfishing

You guys, something really amazing happened. It's been on my bucket list since MTV brought us the life changing and thought provoking reality show, Cat Fish. My name is Jenn and I have always wanted to be catfished.

In my fantasy I've been talking to a super cute, super funny, girthy (in relation to the D obviously) dude and I'm really into it. Like, I'm naming all the puppies and freezing the 3 potential eggs I have left in case he wants a baby to take care of by himself in the future. He has some legit sounding excuses about why we can't meet up. Like he takes care of his sick mother and she thinks girls with tattoos and piercings are the devil and might try to baptize me in pig's blood in their bath tub or that he takes care of his 9 nieces and nephews because his sister has a gaping vagina and babies just fall out and he's trying to be a supportive sibling. But finally, it's happening and the world is like a big fucking rainbow land with unicorns and shit. But when I walk into the shitty dive bar where our love is going to blossom, the only person waiting is a large, sassy black woman. I immediately burst into tears, screaming "How could you!? I looooooooved hiiiiiiiiim!!!!!" and throw a chair through a window. I mean can't you just picture it? Doesn't it give you all of the feels to imagine it all?

I've gone on more dates with dudes from the internet than I'd like to admit. But I only fucked like half of them so I'm still doing alright.

Anyway, I've been doing OkCupid up super hard these past couple of weeks. I'm trying to buy a house and not pay rent so I'm legit trolling for a dude with a super sweet apartment, ample parking, and a little balcony area for my future puppy to hang out on. Goals mother fuckers, goals.

Currently I've got my number one internet man friend, and then my back up D and the back up back up D. My number one D has a fucked up work schedule and lives kinda far from me so that fucking blows. So I've accumulated the back up D who lives closer, probably doesn't work, and is also kind of a shitshow. And then the back up back up D who I'm not super sure about. He seems cool but all over the place. He might be married, he might be a serial killer, or maybe even a hoarder of cat carcasses. So it's kind of like 3 dicks, 1 vagina.

Today was a bad day. Like the kind of day when you need a vodka drink by 10:30 a.m. and consider starting a trash can fire just to get the fuck away from work. Clearly when back up back up D texted me promising free drinks and food after work I was down. I'm above sucking a dick for a diet coke, but a couple vodka tonics and spinach artichoke dip and things can get crazy. Since he's my third ranking D I didn't give a shit about wearing my boring ass work clothes or brushing my hair. Girl needed some booze. I walked into the bar and immediately noticed a dude sitting at the bar that totally fucking phantomed on me like a year or more ago. I thought it was weird because dude lives in Silverlake and didn't really troll LB but there he was. I was stoked on the prospect of putting my tongue in someone's mouth right in front of his face.

I walked around to the other side of the bar and sat down. I pulled out my phone to be like bro, I'm thirsty where the fuck is you? Phantom dude sits down next to me. Before I can hiss in his face he says, "So I owe you that vodka tonic with extra limes right?". MOTHER FUCKER. Dude catfished me. He changed his cell phone number, used someone else's picture on OkCupid and tried to re-date me. What in all of the fucks of the world!? I tried to squeeze out some fake tears but I've been beaten down by life ya'all and I don't have any fake tears left to give. I thought about throwing a chair, but there were some burly looking chicks nearby that looked like they would've gladly stabbed me for ruining their buzz. So I chugged my free vodka tonic, slammed the glass down, and did what Beyonce told me to do. Put both middle fingers up and yell boy bye. I really did that you guys. And it was AWESOME. I will never feel guilty about forcing my phone to call me Beyonce ever again.

I feel validated. I never understood why that dude phantomed on me and now I know he's been staying up every single night, sobbing and eating chips in bed and blacking out on whiskey by himself in his apartment. Wondering where his life went wrong and what he's missing. And then realizing it's ME, BITCH. Should I feel weirded out that he stalked me little bit? Hell no. I am worthy of being stalked. Am I bummed out that I no longer have a back up back up D? NOPE.

Ladies, next time you're wondering if that dude who phantomed on you is living a happy life and doing super awesome, know this. He's not. He's crying. And he should be. Because you, me and Beyonce are the fucking tits. And let's be real, I'm too fucking tired for a back up back up D.

Girl down.

balding men with mustaches

I haven’t written in a minute. I wish I could say it’s because my life has been super awesome and I’ve been TFDing into the wee (or god willing not so wee) hours and living life instead of writing about it. But that would make me a dirty fucking liar, and truth is my thing. The gritty, dirty, possibly STD-covered truth is what I’m about.

So the herpes truth is that every time I’ve started to write it’s gotten dark. Like real dark. Like Fairuza Balk wanting to get penetrated by the devil in The Craft kinda dark. Basically, my dog died and I lost any sliver of happy I had in me.

I get it. There are refugee orphans drowning in the ocean and terrorist attacks and innocent people dying every day. But honestly for the past few months I don’t have any sad to give anywhere else. Friends and family have gone through shit and I’ve got nothing. Stupid boys with beards hit me up and I didn’t care. Not even a little bit. Basically, like RIP my vagina. No one will ever disappoint you again.

I realized sitting in my roach infested oven of an apartment with my blind cat who was equally depressed about losing his BFF/heterosexual life partner with no family or friends in Long Beach to bring me sadness burritos was legitimately going to cause me to take a Whitney Houston bath.

So, guys, you’ll be happy to hear that I’m back with my roommates that birthed me. My mom wouldn’t let me get back into the womb, selfish bitch, but I did the next best thing and moved into the lady cave at my parent’s house. AND I’M NOT FUCKING SORRY ABOUT IT.

Oh, your roommate doesn’t offer to bring you a breakfast burrito before you even get out of bed? SUCKS FOR YOU. Oh and you have to buy your own toilet paper, paper towels, peanut butter, bread, etc.? Not me mother fuckers that shit is just magically there for my use. BOOM.

I mean real talk, I struggled with the decision to take a few steps back from adulthood by moving back home. But here’s the thing, I won’t be broke anymore. And I’ll be forced to be a human being by interacting with people other than my coworkers that make me want to stab my eyeballs out of my head. And I’m motivated to take some huge steps into adulthood by saving to buy a house. BY MYSELF. MY HOUSE BITCHES. I mean I already have the super sweet bar cart and wine fridge so I’m halfway there.

Also I won’t have to share my dinner with roaches. Or hear my neighbors scream at each other, and at their children, and at their dogs, or just for fun. And I have air conditioning. Like all the time. I mean basically I’m going from hell to a cool 70 degrees kinda hell. That’s all I ask out of life man.

Oh and your probably wondering what’s going to happen to TFDing now that I live with the people that birthed me. Well, let me tell you this. Nothing encourages you to go out trolling when your other option is watching 65 hours of COPS re-runs, the history channel, or HGTV with two old people that have the TV on so fucking loud your eardrums start bleeding. I would even go home with a 3. My standards have infinitely dropped since I hit 30.

I mean I already have 3 okcupid dates lined up for the next couple of weeks. Personally, I’m rooting for the single dad with a mustache. But the chef who might be balding could definitely pull ahead if he cooks me dinner wearing just an apron.

Don’t worry. I’ll keep ya’all posted.

Cheers bitches $$$

match.com without the procreation

I’ve been MIA for a while because to be perfectly honest I haven’t felt funny. This blog isn’t about white girls bitching about other bitches being bitches. I mean I’ve had a few of those (calling all Cunty Carol’s) but that’s not what this is supposed to be about. So let’s get our glasses of wine/shots of vodka/beer bongs/champagne bongs/spliffs/joints/bongs, etc. ready for some real talk.

A couple of weeks ago my best friend/life partner/partner in crime/life coach/furry child passed away. I had Hercules for 20 years. This is not a joke or an exaggeration, though I know I’m good at both things. This dog was by my side for literally two decades. He made me laugh. Like one of his last practical jokes when he took a hot shit on the floor and conned my friend into stepping in it with her bare feet. Even better was she was too drunk to realize it had literally encased her foot and woke up the next morning on my floor with shit still caked in between her toes. I think I burst some blood vessels from laughing at that. He made me cry. Like when I purchased a beautiful new rug and he looked me right in the eyes and took a 2 minute piss on the formerly beautiful new rug. He’d be happy to know that the piss rug still remains in my apartment. I’m not aging well, perhaps it’ll be covered in my urine soon.

But best of all he made me get my ass out of bed every morning even when I felt like I couldn’t and I hated everything and wanted to never wake up. He relied on me and he needed me and I got my ass out of bed every day because I didn’t want to disappoint him. If you’ve never had a dog or are a heartless son of a bitch you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. And to that I say, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

The past few weeks I feel like Eeyore. And not in the cute way. Like the super fucked up way where it’s like all the little things that used to make me happy seem stupid and my life feels heavy and every time I see a picture of a dog on the internets I want to throw up.

I have my cat. But anyone who has/had a cat and a dog knows it’s not the same. My pup was obsessed with me. Seriously. Even when he was an old man and moving around hurt and he was tired, he was at my heels every step I took. I can’t tell you how many times I damn near lost my life tripping over him. Now that’s dedication. I am positive my cat has tried to kill me numerous times. Like when I was in college and my roommate and I lived in a two story apartment and he hid on the stairs and then attacked me so I fell halfway down the stairs with my laundry basket and possibly broke every rib in my body. Attempted murder. Or when he sat on my face as I was sleeping and tried to suffocate me with his fat ass. Attempted murder. Also I know my cat doesn’t need me. He may be blind, but he’s a fucking boss ass bitch. I wouldn’t fuck with him if I was a cat. To be honest I’m a grown ass woman and I’m scared of him. I’m that dog in the YouTube video tip toeing past the cat because I don’t want the wrath of Satan. He pretends he needs me, like when he cries into my mouth when he’s hungry. But the second he gets what he wants, the only thanks I get is a sneak attack claw to the ass cheek and he’s over me for the next 3-4 hours until he’s hungry again. I am an abused cat mom.

So anyway, I’ve been feeling really rough.

I’m trying to be positive. I mean now that I don’t have to worry about my furry kid all the time I have more freedom. I don’t have to rush home to walk him and make sure my cat hasn’t eaten him. If I want to go out and leave the bar with a 4 I totally can and my dog won’t be there to judge me. And if I realize outside of bar lighting he’s a 2 I can just let my cat kill him. (Kidding, sort of.) Spontaneous road trips to the Bay are no problem. I know I won’t black out and buy weird ass things on Amazon like silicone paw print baking sheets. (No regrets though to be perfectly honest.) But I can’t seem to convince myself that these things make up for what I lost.

My little brother, who has become my life coach/spiritual advisor/voice of reason/sponsor, gave me a pep talk. He told me that my dog was my excuse for a lot of things. It was harsh, but once I got past wanting to stab him with a butter knife I realized he was totally right. I had pretty much given up on serious dating and relationships because I knew there wasn’t a dude that would ever be as important to me as my dog. And let’s be real, no dude wants to be second choice to a dog. I don’t blame him. Instead of working on my shit, I just put all my energy into dog mom life. Which believe me, when you have a dog that has moved into geriatric years, is a full-time job. Now that I don’t have that, what the fuck do I do with myself?

Also when you experience a major loss in your life it makes you re-evaluate EVERYTHING. Your friendships, your lifestyle, who the fuck you actually are. When people found out about my dog I got texts, phone calls, flowers, Facebook messages, etc. People that were thousands of miles away and in a different time zone texted or called me to send me some love. People frantically called local flower shops to make special requests for cheerful bouquets to bring some happiness to my sad, sad home. As cheesy as it sounds, it made me realize that I have some fanfuckingtastic people in my universe. It also made me realize that the people who couldn’t bother, are irrelevant to me. I had been holding onto some “friendships” that had long been dead and this pushed me to let them go completely. Bitching about stupid shit over drinks is what friends do. But when it gets to the point that every hangout becomes a negative, woe is me situation, sorry but I’ve got to bow out. I need some positive energy and if I have to break some ties and look elsewhere for it, I will.

I also realized that Long Beach is not the place for me. I don’t care about fitting in and being cool and fucking people’s ex/current/kind of boyfriends to get attention. I’ve lived here off and on for years and I can say I’ve only created a few solid friendships. And those people don’t even live here anymore. I’m not blaming everyone else. But it’s become clear that this is not where my happy place is. If you feel like an outsider in your own neighborhood, it seems like a clear sign to move the fuck on. I’m actually looking forward to seeing where my next venture takes me. And the opportunity to leave behind a lot of dead weight. No matter where I go, I’ll maintain my blue hair don’t care lifestyle. Never sorry.

Another “adulting” step I took was banning all free dating websites. Clearly that was not for me. Yeah it was entertaining meeting some shitshows. But ultimately, I don’t want to wake up next to a shitshow every morning. I’ve mostly retired from mid-week blackouts and at 31 years old it’s not cute to show up to work with barf in my hair and a smeared eyebrow. Only on casual Fridays. And the Monday after a three-day weekend. Obviously. I’m not done with dating. I mean I still have a functioning vagina and I’m in my prime or whatever science says. The left side of my bed is also super empty and devoid of fur now. So I made the sacrifice of not getting the Thai takeout I really wanted (white girl problems) and signed up for Match.com. I figure if people pay, they must be at least a little more serious and I know they aren’t poor. (Sidenote: dudes on okcupid get your fucking life together. If you can’t afford to meet a girl for a drink at a bar, stop trying to date and get a fucking job. FUCK.) So far, it’s been kind of an LOL situation. Can someone please create a dating website for people that are serious but aren’t trying to impregnate me immediately? For real. I’ve gotten 4 “winks”, I think 2 messages and some fucking stars or something. But all these dudes want babies. Like tomorrow. Maybe that’s what I should do with my newfound free time. Create a dating website, that costs money to weed out some assholes, for people that are looking for relationships but don’t want kids. Letsboneandnotmakebabies.com. Someone help me copyright that shit. Although so far match.com has been quite the disappointment, at least I think it’s taking a step in the right direction. And it’s kept me from letting my neighbor penetrate me because he has a really cute puppy I’d like to be stepmom to.

Baby steps guys. Drunk baby steps.

In all seriousness though, thank you to the people that have helped me try to find some happiness again. The people that have shown up at my door and dragged me out into the world because they know I would never ask them to but I needed them to. The people that have stood back and given me space but make sure I know they’re around. The people that let me ugly cry and then ugly cry laugh when they brought up a story involving my crazy furry kid. The people that have forced me to look at myself and make some changes in my life since what I’m doing right now isn’t working. And the people that did nothing at all so I feel no guilt about letting them go and walking away.

If you need someone to kill a bottle of booze with you and talk about poop, call me. I’m ready.

Cheers. 

here, hold my drink while I pee for the 19th time.

For my fellow uterus carriers out there, you can back me up on this, bleeding from your vagina fucking sucks. Not only do the 5-7 days of your period ruin your life, but the 3-4 days before and after aren’t magical either. The day or two before the red sea comes through I always wake up with one chin pimple. I know, I know. Poor fucking me with my one pimple. But I’m telling you, this pimple is a mother fucking demon from hell. It’s bigger than my 19 pound dog and it hurts and it’s angry and it stays with me for what feels like 5-7 years.

Also the awesomeness of feeling like you’re 6 months pregnant, even though you’re clearly not because your uterus is punishing you for NOT being pregnant, because you’re bloated as fuck. The bloating leads to needing to pee every 76 seconds. Suddenly I’m a 98 year old woman and can’t get drunk because I’m peeing faster than I can consume shots of alcohol.

I’m positive the only internal organ I have that punishes me for not procreating is my uterus. The rest of my body is like, “Fuck yeah! Dodged that bullet for another month!”. Some people (dudes) might say it’s cool that our boobs get slightly bigger. True, they do. However, they hurt so much I would quickly turn any dude into a eunuch who tries to touch them. Seriously, I will turn you into Theon Greyjoy so fucking fast no one will be able to save you. The rolling red sea comes with rolling rage blackouts so you better get your shit together people.

My favorite thing is the emotional turmoil my uterus causes me. Those commercials of the orphaned kittens, puppies, babies, rabbits, etc. with Sarah McLachlan singing sadly in the background make me LOSE MY FUCKING SHIT. Seriously. That’s not an animal being murdered. That’s me sobbing hysterically and clutching both my pets as they struggle to flee my smothering love. It’s not just orphans, it’s old people too. I saw a cute older couple walking down the street holding hands and I turned into a fucking psychopath. I tried to hug them while ugly crying and wiping snot off my face and probably barely escaped getting arrested. Non-bleeding me would never display this kind of emotion in public. Also I only ugly cry when the direwolves in Game of Thrones die. WHICH THEY ALWAYS FUCKING DO YOU GOD DAMN MASOCHISTS. Don’t even get me started on watching that show while I’m having my own personal red wedding. I can’t even live. Get a gun.

In summary, I am by all definitions a nightmare when I’m having my blessed menses. Generally I will avoid dudes and dates during this rough time for the safety of all parties. But then I realized, why? It’s not like dudes have ever saved me from their man periods. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to shove snacks down a dudes throat because he’s having a hangry meltdown and losing his shit in public. He may not have blood spewing from his vagina but he’s definitely bloated and being a real bitch. So I decided to see if when all the pretense is gone and a dude is getting the raw dog version of me, can he hang?

I met up with a dude from the internets for drinks. It went about as well as coming out of the closet at a church in the deep South holding hands with your black boyfriend.

First of all, the demon pimple was in its full glory. There literally is not enough concealer to pretend it’s not happening. So there’s that. Also my uterus was trying to exit my body through either my belly button or my asshole. At any moment she might succeed and make a break for it so I made sure I wore a skirt for an easy escape, ain’t nobody got time for ripped pants, and shoes that I could run in. I probably should have sent him an updated pictured with 13 less filters and with a more anatomically correct chin angle. Whatever.

I could tell he was instantly terrified as I immediately shoved 6 pain killers down my throat when the bartender put my drink in front of me. He looked concerned so I eased his worry by saying, “Don’t worry it’s for my contracting uterus. At least I’m not pregnant!”. I’m 50% sure he thought maybe I was pregnant and was trying to not be pregnant by consuming medication and alcohol. Maybe he did kind of get my vibe.

Even better than my glossed over expression while he talked about his “life” and whatever was that I had to pee every 3 minutes. Seriously. There is already too much happening near my bladder. She can’t be bothered holding in a little urine. She’s BUSY. The good thing was I could make him start his story again over and over since I couldn’t retain one fucking word he was saying at me. By the time I was on drink three I had gone full Terri Schaivo. I don’t even know if I told him I was calling my Uber. Did I call an Uber? Not important.

Needless to say, don’t expect any wedding announcements from me in 2019. Dude sent an obligatory, “Are you feeling better?” text to which I replied, “My uterus is trying to murder me.” It’s been radio silence since.

It sounds cheesy but I’m going to live the mantra, “If you can’t handle me at hungover then you don’t get to handle me at blacked out and horny.” In the future I will bring my angry uterus, granny panties, chin demon and muscle relaxers to all of my dates. Bye boy if you can’t handle it.

remember that time you insulted me in 1994? I do, you fucking dick.

My last blog was written during an Ambien blackout. Am I sorry? No. Am I still pissed about the actor not wanting to get me pregnant and then pay for the abortion? No. Because I studied his picture last night after a bottle of sangria and decided that he has a weird eye. Like his eye gets a little wonky. I can't deal with that. If your eye gets a little wonky just from a normal day of living your life, I can only imagine what the fuck happens when you're blacked out. I just really can't be bothered with that kind of stress in my life.

But it did get me thinking about how I wasted an Ambien blackout on being pissed about him. And probably wasted a lot of hours being irritated that he phantomed on me without even letting me ruin his life a little bit. And then this took me on a dark path thinking about all the other stupid shit I've wasted my life on.

One of my exes is a huge asshole. Like, for real. He says the wrong thing pretty much all the time. He's the guy that if you're crying and having the worst day ever, he'll let you know that your mascara is running and remind you that no one loves you. And it just makes you feel even worse having someone who's so...nothing...saying words that make you die a little inside. One time I was arguing with this dickhead at a bar who was being super misogynistic and belittling me. Instead of defending me, Asperger's (this is the nickname he's earned with my friends and I won't apologize if you're offended) ended up defending the douchebag and basically telling me I was a fucking idiot. Great guy. Seriously. But the absolute worst thing he ever said, that to this day has fucked up my psyche, was the first time he saw me without make up fresh out of the shower he looked right at me with disgust and said, "You look weird." Now, even though I felt like he'd kicked me in the face and wanted to crawl into a hole and die, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt because, I mean,  Asperger's. But no. When I saw him a little later, when I was wearing make up and my hair was on par, he said, "Ok good, that's better." WHAT IN THE FUCK MAN. Why does a dude feel like he can say that to his girlfriend? He probably never gave it a second thought but that moment still haunts me. I was super paranoid about a dude seeing me without make up on forever after that. It still gives me some anxiety but I refuse to get more wrinkles from sleeping with my make up on for some lame ass dude that won't be around in 3 days. Bye girl. This guy also told me I wasn't very smart on many occasions. This coming from someone who never went to college and was unemployed 80% of the time I knew him. Maybe I was stupid though. Stupid for listening to his bitch ass. Again, bye girl.

When I was boning down with the 21 year old former/current heroin addict he made an offhand comment once that when he was my age (at the time I was 25) he was going to have a super rad apartment and be making all the money. At the time I did have a super sweet apartment that I paid for all on my own and a pretty decent job making more money than most people my age. But all of a sudden my apartment looked like a fucking box in a Wal-Mart parking lot and my job might as well have been giving HJ's in my box in the parking lot. This bothered me a lot. I felt ashamed even though I'd worked really fucking hard to get where I was. The disgusting part is this was coming from a kid who lived at home with his mommy who paid for everything. He worked part-time as a bartender and didn't even have enough money to pay for his taxi rides home from my apartment. WHY!? Why would I let this kid make me feel like a loser? I still have moments when someone is coming over to my place where I try to overcompensate and buy more expensive vodka or vacuum 70 times. Then I remind myself that I have a bar cart and a wine fridge so as far as apartments go...mine is fucking NAILING IT.

Also the older man vegan that lived at home with his mom made some comments that really shit on my soul. Like the time he compared me to a Suicide Girl he was obsessed with but said I kinda looked like her but maybe an older version of her. She was older than me by at least 6 years. Awesome, thanks. Love hearing that I'm a broke down Suicide Girl lookalike. Or when he told me that he put his dick in lots of places but I shouldn't care because he sort of almost loved me so I was the most important hole of this penis to hang out in. Luckiest girl alive!!!

No wonder I'm such a fucking mess.

I wonder if any of them ever suddenly feel a wave of insecurity from something a lady said to them that was pretty fucked up. Maybe someone told them they had a weird ballsack so getting a BJ makes them nervous. Or someone told them they weren't very smart so they google everything to prevent sounding unintelligent. Honestly though, I know that's not true. Because their mothers told them they were 10's when they're 4's at best. Except for the heroin addict. He's a 12. Maybe even a 13 when he doesn't talk. But still...I know he doesn't have a cool apartment and a bar cart and a wine fridge because I saw him sitting outside his parent's house smoking a cigarette the other day. Nailing it bro...totally.

Also, I just bought a sling, like for a baby, so I can carry my 20 year old dog around when he gets tired of walking and we have to run from the crackheads fighting over cans in the alley. Does that sound like a stupid, broke down Suicide Girl, with a shitty apartment? NOPE. SUCK IT BITCHES.

I'm done listening to douchebags and mommy's boys and the unemployed and the small penised. I may not be living the dream, but I'm pretty positive I'm living the dream of a Puerto Rican prostitute. WINNING.

today I'm Marnie...the self-absorbed, overly dramatic, petty one...deal with it.

This entry will not make the world a better place. It will not inspire change in the world, advance feminism, or save an orphan. I am going to bitch about something stupid and meaningless and you know what, I'M NOT FUCKING SORRY ABOUT IT. Maybe it'll take your mind off your own shit for a few minutes. Or maybe you can mock my petty problems. Either way, read it and love it, or hate it and suck it.

I've learned recently that I have to be a little more subtle with my code names for people when I write about them. Because it turns out that every dude I have ever had a conversation with and definitely every dude that would be on my call list if I found out I had herpes, reads this god damn blog. It's my own fault. I did put it up on my dating profile and shit got pretty crazy after that. Like the dudes who only wanted to meet up so I would write about them. Eat a dick. You're not interesting enough to write about. Also I don't need you throwing a drink at me or pulling out your dick at a bar to make a good story. I have enough problems in my life without drinks and dicks flopping around in my face. You know what, fuck it. I've had too much booze and I just took an Ambien and a muscle relaxer so there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to think up new nicknames for people and keep them straight. If I wake up to angry texts tomorrow, so be it. But don't send them too early you fuckers, I got a wedding to get blacked out at tomorrow. I need my rest.

Previously I mentioned a dude we call "The Actor", who I met on the internet. After weeks of flirt texting and blackout texting and lots of eggplant emojis being sent back and forth, we went on a date. I thought as far as first dates go, it was pretty fucking decent. We both knocked over drinks at the first bar. Super classy. Had a brief make out session in a parking structure. Even got a phone call from the dude making sure my slightly drunk ass got home safely. Then the son of a bitch phantomed. I was pretty pissed but decided that he was probably a baby rapist and I had dodged a bullet of being known as the girl with the boyfriend who was a baby rapist. I mean, that's something you don't come back from.

After I posted that blog, I got a random text from him thanking me for the shoutout. I was on my way to be penetrated by a beard so I was only irritated by his sudden appearance. But whatever, I said something noncommittal and that was the end of that.

Despite being super annoyed by his little bitchness, I guess in the back of my mind it's bothered me why he disappeared, reappeared, then disappeared again. Like, what the fuck? I'm pretty sure dudes can see by the resting bitch face I have when I'm on a date if I'm not into it. Also, I'll send a text saying "I'm not into it." But I definitely don't make out with a dude, check on his safety post-date and then disappear. I can be a fucking asshole, but that's on a whole new level man.

So even though in my real life I didn't give a fuck about this dude, in my drunk life I still had rage blackouts about it. After shit with the beard went sideways I'll admit it, but I'm blaming my uterus, I looked up The Actor on OkCupid to see if he still had an account. I couldn't find him, so I came to terms that he must've met someone. I wished him the best. And by the best, I mean I hoped she would cheat on him with all 6 of his roommates and steal his flatscreen television and leave him with period stained underwear and at least 76 STD's. I'm totally a good person. I truly put him out of my mind completely.

But because my life is fucking stupid, his face popped up on my potential matches page the other day. Sidenote: allegedly we're a 92% match. Yeah, I know. This is the shit that the internet tells us and therefore FUCKING RUINS OUR SOULS. I literally felt sick to my stomach. No longer can I pretend he's recovering somewhere in an adult diaper while the sores on his penis ooze. If anything he probably got into an accident that made his dick bigger. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK. The worst part is that he's kinda the cutest. Ugh. I hate him. I hate men. I hate my pets right now because they are simultaneously licking their penises. I just feel so attacked right now in my own home.

It's dumb that this bothers me. It's dumb that it's plagued me all day. It's pathetic that every time I get a notification I want it to be from him. The rational part of my brain accepts that I'm not his jam. But the irrational part of my brain thinks I could ply him over here with booze and boobs and I could lock this shit down. But to get phantomed on twice? I don't think I have the emotional strength to survive that. I'm already on rocky ground these days. Every time I see a puppy meme I lose my fucking shit and sob until I need an ambulance.

I know what I have to do. I have to drink one more glass of wine. And then I have to message him. Something casual, no big deal. Something like: "WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME YOU FUCKING FUCKING BASTARD.?? I'M A GOOD COOK. I'M DOWN FOR THE SEXY TIMES ALL DAY EVERYDAY. I WILL SKIP MEALS FOR SEX. THAT IS A TRUTH. ALSO I HAVE AWESOME TATOOS THAT GIVE YOU FUN THINGS TO LOOK AT DURING NAKED TIMES AND MY DOWNSTAIRS IS LIKE ABABY'S VAGINA. AND ASSHOLE! Please love me.

That message seems like a winner right? Like we'll be planning our wedding next year. Popping out so many french bulldog baby puppies.

These meds are kicking in and I feel ready to make some bad choices. I'm gonna  message him. I'm gonna play it cool. I'm gonna take a lot of the stuff out of the first message out. But I'm definitely leaving in the stuff about my hairless kitty and asshole. Wish me luck guys.

Mama's gonna go get herself a hot date! I'll probably bring diapers just in case.

Cheers!! I'm so fucked up right now. I love you all. And FYI blogging naked is EVERYTHING .

if you're normal and you know it fill your hands with shit and clap.

Guys, I was stood up. And I’m not happy about it.

You all know I went on a date with a psychopath last week. I have some big news to reveal… I’m not pregnant and if I was he would definitely NOT be the father. Don’t even look at the eyebrows. Psychopath and I were not a love match and I’ve walked on the other side of the street to avoid running into him and falling onto his penis since our date from hell. I’m trying to make 2016 my year of better decisions. So far, it’s not really going that well. But I’m not giving up hope yet. I’ll know by August how much more emotionally damaged I’ve become.

In the midst of my short lived text love affair with the psychopath I was also somewhat texting with a normal dude. Like, painfully normal. He doesn’t really drink during the week. He’s never had a restraining order filed against him. I think he even hangs out with his family and stuff. What a fucking weirdo. He asked me to hang out like 45 times and I shrugged my shoulders, which he couldn’t see obviously, and then changed the subject. I already struggle to pay attention to people when they’re talking. If you’re saying a lot of words that don’t involve “booze”, “baby goats”, “booze”,  or “cats in boxes”, I just really can’t with you.

Anyway, after the psychopath I decided that I might have met my batshit crazy quota for the month and maybe I should give normal dude a shot. So after his 56th text asking to meet up for a drink, I still shrugged my shoulders, but I said I was down. Monday was the designated awkward first date night. I figured we’d meet somewhere downtown, where worst case scenario I could drown him out by watching the homeless harass pedestrians. I decided 7:00 was a good start time so I could drink a bottle of wine and be kind of sleepy and thus less intense. You can’t be intense with normal dudes. I think they’re allergic to it.

I had my whole plan figured out, but around 12:00 on Monday I realized I hadn’t actually shared my plan so I texted normal dude.  Generally I received a reply within 16 seconds. This time, nothing. I figured he was probably busy at work and I’d hear from him closer to 5:00. At 5:01, nothing. Now I’m fucking PISSED. I don’t even care about you. I shrugged my god damn mother fucking shoulders. But not responding to me is giving me a rage blackout. You’re shrugging your shoulders with your silence. That’s my thing you son of a bitch.

What in the hell? I don’t get it. Why would you try so hard for months to hang out, and then when I’m finally about it, you phantom. It’s such a lady thing to do. Crazy bitches put time and effort into fucking dudes over. Was I being catfished by a lady? I’ve always wanted to be catfished. But I wanted it to go all the way. Like my dream is to show up at a bar and have a scary looking woman waiting for me and then I would start screaming and crying and throwing chairs and flipping tables. It would be a masterpiece on YouTube. I’d probably get like 56 views.

I’ve accepted that I had some bad dating karma coming my way. I’ve never actually stood anyone up. If I say I’m coming, I’ll be there two drinks in when you arrive. But I’ve pulled some dick moves. Like the awkward skinny guy that thought he was going to lose his virginity to me, but instead I stopped returning his texts even when he waited at a brewery for me hoping I’d show up and then bought us Rihanna tickets because I drunkenly told him I was obsessed with her. That was all him though. I told him how I felt about virgins. Or the older dude that seemed like a silver fox until he took off his hat and had the largest head I’d ever seen in real life. So I texted my friend to fake emergency call me (seriously Oscar worthy performance to Eric who screamed like a child having a tantrum and ruined everyone’s life at the bar) and then bailed because I just couldn’t look at that giant head anymore. Or the barely not a teenager who wanted me to relive my youth and hang out in his backyard and skateboard and drink Natural Ice with him and his friends who I harshly ditched via text. But seriously, at this point, haven’t I been punished enough? I’ve been through the fucking wringer. Girl down. SOS. Call Oprah.

So anyway, I raged all night over that mother fucker ditching out on me. I SHAVED MY FUCKING LEGS FOR THIS SHIT!? I had to drink 2 bottles of wine and eat 2 muscle relaxers to put myself into a coma so I wouldn’t go searching for the psychopath to anger bang. Tuesday was rough guys. So rough.

But I decided to pull myself together Tuesday morning and be an adult. By noon, when my hangover was at its peak and I thought I was going to barf all over my keyboard and my head would subsequently explode, I decided fuck that shit and texted that douche, “I’M BUSY you stupid DICK.” Pretty sure I nailed it guys. Being mature and stuff.

The moral of this story is you get fucked over by the psychopaths and the normal dudes. It’s a no win situation. If I’m gonna get fucked over anyway, bring on the psychopaths. They’re usually into some weird shit and I’m in my prime. All you normal dudes, I’M FUCKING BUSY. Bye. 

wine chips dog netflix, no chill

I keep tentatively jumping in and out of the dating scene. Sometimes after a bottle and a half of wine and a really rowdy episode of Vikings, I feel like I need a dude around. Then I text one and remember how dumb he is and watch old episodes of the L Word and try to will my vagina into liking other vaginas. So far that hasn’t worked. My vagina is a traitorous bitch.

There’s been a dude who’s kinda been around for a minute. I met him on the internet so of course there was a 99% chance he was fucking insane. But he can text a complete sentence and I’m getting more wrinkles by the day so I figured what the hell. The worst that can happen is that he’ll murder me and my furry children and wear our skins as clothing for the new few months. No big deal, right? Also, from what I can tell, white really would be his color.

Apparently in Seattle after some jello shots and Moscow mules and literally a bucket of tator tots I had texted him and promised that we’d meet for a drink. And then again when I chased my wine with Ambien and purchased an embarrassing array of items for making homemade dog treats I promised a hang out. And so this is where we landed. I still blame the show Vikings.

I figured it was either hang out, or block his number and pretend I died. Which hasn’t quite worked for me in the past since I ran into a dude at a liquor store a few weeks after faking my death and it wasn’t the reunion anyone would have hoped for. Pretty sure he muttered, “Cunt” under his breath as I walked by him and smiled like an insane person. I hope you’re doing well Registered Randy. Don’t ask me what his Christian name was.

Anyway, so I agreed to meet up for a few dozen drinks. This guy is attractive. So I immediately knew there was something fucked up going on here. Either he’s got like a Quasimodo hump he’s hiding under that flannel or an inflamed ball or super aggressive growths all over his penis or three ex-wives and 14 children. Personally, I was hoping for the hump. I mean, that’s something I could get over. Children? Fuck that mess.

I ordered a double vodka tonic and figured I might as well just jump into this shitshow and rip the band aid off quickly. Even though, real talk guys, ripping off a band aid quickly really fucking hurts. I don’t think it hurts less. I think it hurts more, we just use our ADD to remove the memory from our minds quickly. That’s my scientific standpoint on that whole thing. You’re welcome.

The first thing Quasimodo says to me is, “This is my fourth drink because when you have an ex-wife and work three jobs and don’t live the life you thought you would have, this is what you do.” WHAT IN ALL THE FUCKS OF THE WORLD IS FUCKING HAPPENING? I think I literally died a little inside. All I wanted was my wine, my dog, my Netflix and a bag of chips. Seriously. I’m never leaving my house after 8 p.m. again.

Every time I tried to change the subject to more inspiring and hopeful things like baby goats on Instagram or the upcoming election or orphans or the end of the world, this dude kept bringing it back to his shitty, shitty life. He made me want to murder everything but I strongly considered just making out with his face in the hopes he would stop saying words. I also figured a super aggressive make out would allow me to search for the hump discreetly. I’m embarrassed to say this, how the mighty have fallen, but I did not want to make out with his face. Guys, he even had a beard and my body wanted to escape.

Every time he mentioned murdering his ex-wife I took a drink. My drink was gone in three minutes. If someone would have offered me meth, I would have done it. That’s how dire this situation was. I would have done meth and ripped out all my teeth and put them in his mouth so he would stop talking. This has given me a super fucked up visual that will haunt me for years. You’re also welcome because I hope it haunts you as well.

I tried to make up some reason why I had to run for my fucking life but then he’d say something self-deprecating and I’d feel kinda bad for him and stay and then immediately regret it 4 seconds later when he’d make a really bad joke and I had to fake laugh until my ribs shattered in my body. You guys, I literally wanted to break my glass and stab myself in the eyeball with it. However, I knew that would just be a story he would tell to someone from Tinder and because he has a beard that Tinder girl would feel sad for him and blow him in the parking lot. I didn’t want that life for Tinderella. She deserves better. Probably.

I sat through this bullshit for an hour. ONE FUCKING HOUR. You know how your hour lunch break at work feels like 30 seconds? THIS WAS NOT LIKE THAT. I thought it had to be 3:00 a.m. and felt tears welling up in my eyes that I was going to pull an all-nighter and not get any sex out of it. Finally, I was saved when he got called into work. I wanted to kiss his boss on the mouth for saving my life. Sir, seriously, whoever you are, thank you for your service.

We waited outside for our separate Ubers because I lied and told him I lived in Signal Hill so he would not try to get in my Uber and murder both of us and leave us on his ex-wife’s front lawn. Then he mentioned that he was on his way to work at a bar RIGHT NEXT TO MY FUCKING APARTMENT. Son of a bitch. Also, fun fact, he’s been newly hired as a server at a restaurant that I love and frequent to get my booze on. Cool. Also, because luck really was on my side, our Ubers pulled up at the same time. Clearly I cannot have the Uber driver take me directly home because then we would be following his Uber and he would see that I do not live in Signal Hill. And then he would murder me for being a lying scum bag whore like his lovely ex-wife. So I did the adult, logical thing and made my Uber driver take me to a liquor store to buy wine and chips because I knew soon I’d also have my dog and this fresh hell would be over. And then I still made him take the back way to my apartment so Quasimodo did not murder and skin me.

The moral of this story is I am never leaving my house again after 8:00 p.m. I am never texting anyone with a penis that isn’t related to me ever again. I am never talking to a male in public ever again. I am moving to that island that is run by cats. That is my new life goal.

Also, I have another date on Monday. Pray for me. 

is that a hymen or leftover toilet paper?

2015 was my year of no dudes. I literally become manarexic and avoided peen at all costs. I can’t even remember any drunk makeouts. Except for the uber drivers, allegedly. But since I have no recollection, I’m not counting it.

A lot of people are like what the fuck is wrong with you saying no to the D for 365 days!? To them I say, look at all my bad choices in the previous years and tell me I didn’t need a mother fucking time out. I needed to put my peesh away for a while. I needed my brain and my vagina to become friends and work together. I’m not sure that’s possible because my vagina is aggressive and my brain gets tired…but I’m willing to try new things.

So as of January 1, 2015 my OkCupid account remained dormant. No more swiping left. All my suitable for public viewing and bright lighting panties went into retirement. Shaved legs? Quoting a friend of a friend who shit in someone’s backyard and then tried to punch her friend who called her out for it…TO WHAT!? (Sidenote: A true friend will call you out if you shit in someone’s backyard. A best friend will call you out and then blog about it.) When I blacked out at bars I didn’t even talk to the beards I was surrounded by. I studied them from afar and imagined how much more epic they would be in a year. I’m not saying I didn’t miss the satisfaction of bringing home a 7 in bar lighting and making him leave before I sobered up and realized he was probably a 4. And I really did miss pretending we’d hang out again and then immediately deleting his number identified as “Hazel Beard” (I have no explanation.) before dude was even in the uber. I also feel bad for all of the dudes out there that didn’t get to experience this natural disaster. I’m fucking fun.

I can honestly say I learned some things while living as a born again virgin. I learned that blacking out is a lot less stressful when you know you’re not trying to be cute at the end of the night. I’ll confess something because I feel like this is a safe place and I’m open to all of you judging the fuck out of me. I had never puked in my bed from being a drunk person in my whole 30, now 31, years of life. But I managed to drink so much whiskey that I puked in my bed. On my dog. My fucking furry child was covered in whisky vomit. This would have been life changing if I had a 7/4 in my bed and the vomit got in his magical beard. I probably would have cried. And real talk, I’m an ugly crier so that would have ruined his life twice. Instead, I knew the unconditional love my dog has for me would outlast his memory of being puked on and I cleaned us both up, changed the sheets and it was like nothing ever happened. BAM. Re-do! So there’s that.

Also, dudes stress me the fuck out. Like what does this text of all emoticons mean? Does it mean he wants to have a threesome with a crying panda and stick a banana in my asshole? I am only cool with one of those things. Or when you make those awkward “sort of” plans and then sit there feeling dumb when you wore your slutty underwear and the only person who knows is your cat because he watched you put them on like a sexual predator because neither one of you has the balls to make the plans concrete. And then a week later you both pretend you did something super cool that night even though he also wore his slutty underwear and only his roommate knows about it. I also hate dating because it gives me the barfs from all the anxiety involved. I’m not eating a salad because I’m pretending I don’t get down super hard on burritos. I’m eating a salad so if I barf in your mouth from being so stressed it’ll be like a kale smoothie or something. Maybe you’re into that shit. I don’t know your life! I can honestly say 2015 involved 0 dude related stress. I could take my Xanax for fun again. Weeee!!

But in case you weren’t aware because you’ve been fucked up since Thanksgiving…it’s now 2016. And because I’m now 31 which is almost 35 which is pretty close to dead times, I figure I should get back on that horse. Horse being dick. But not an actual horse’s dick. I want to clarify in case one of you fuckers gets some ideas.

So last night I took a big step. I left my front door unlocked and got back on OkCupid. Turns out, the dudes are even more fucked up than they were a year ago. And I’m super into it. You can literally smell the mommy and abandonment issues. These are my people. Oh, you don’t have a uhaul of baggage to park right next to mine? This isn’t gonna work.  I need to be with people who make me feel more sane and like I’m nailing it at life. If you’re more well-adjusted than I am you won’t feed into my crocodile tears when I’m drunk and want a burrito but pretend I have the sads because I didn’t have enough New Kids on the Block swag as a child. But you also can’t be a complete fucking nightmare because I don’t want to have to drag your ass home from the bar by your beard. I’ll do it. But it’ll make me tired and my balance isn’t so good when I’m drunk so I’ll probably fall and hurt myself and then we’ll have to break up again.

As I said in a text to my friend this morning, it’s time to open the basement up for business. The people need it. Also what the fuck is the point of having this stupid thing in my arm to kill potential babies if I’m not being penetrated? Such a waste.

Let the 2016 shitshow begin. 

2016 is already a wet fart while wearing white pants.

So, it’s 2016.

As it turns out, exes and explosive diarrhea weren’t left behind in 2015. Cool. (Dear Apocalypse, Anytime now. Seriously. Please.)

I guess I hoped that by some Harry Potter magic situation all my bad decisions and vomit inducing sexual exploits would have disappeared into a beautiful, glittery fog. Obviously I should have done a ton of drugs on New Years Eve since I was clearly hoping for some Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shit and wanted to eliminate my long-term memory and start fresh. That didn’t happen. My New Years Eve ended with me watching my home girl deep throat one of those street dogs covered in bacon and semen and then trying to fight off a dog to eat half a sandwich before just giving up the fight, taking an Ambien and a half dozen muscle relaxers, and blacking out to Bob’s Burgers.

I actually felt pretty good about this new year for a few days. I envisioned myself trying to live a better, healthier life and getting a better paying job and a super sweet apartment and only nailing 7’s and up here on out and really just kind of killin it at adulting. Then my life took a big dump on my chest and reminded me that vegetables are fucking demons and there is no life without French fries and booze and I can’t afford a better apartment then the box I live in and I don’t really want to have to step up my game to play in the big leagues of getting dick and no. I’m not killin it. It’s killin me seems to be more accurate. At least I know what having “hope” felt like for a few days. But honestly, whatever, I’m getting cheese fries.

The biggest reminder that absolutely nothing has changed since December 31st involved an ex. Not even my ex. A friend’s ex. When it’s not even your own ex that’s ruining your life you know it’s the end times.

My friend and I decided to get beers and not vegetable food at a bar I frequented almost daily when I lived in my previous apartment. There’s always a risk that we’ll run into an ex, or a one night stand, or a three night stand, or an alley BJ; but their beer selection is stellar and their bar food is necessary after three straight days of starvation/binge drinking.  The sun was still out so we figured we were safe. What a couple of dumb bitches.

About halfway into our first pitcher I saw a look of panic on my friend’s face. I immediately assumed it was my ex and tried to figure out how I could catapult from our booth to the door without being seen. Seemed like I could probably do it. Then she said these awful words: “The Silver Fox is here.”

Let me give a brief background on this. The Silver Fox is a 50ish year old man that I found my friend in the bathroom of this bar with one night and then they did a lot of coke and boning for a while. The end.

I felt bad for her, but also the immediate diarrhea that was about to happen when I thought it was one of my exes went away so that made me feel kind of saved by black Jesus or something. We discussed fleeing for our lives, but we had just ordered another pitcher and you never leave a man behind. Especially if he’s a delicious pitcher of cold beer. Also, he’s not going to come over and talk to us. I mean he’s old and probably out of coke and people should know better than to interrupt a lady when she’s balls deep in tater tots. Have some respect.

Just when we got comfortable and life was great again, it came over to us.

Another slight backtrack. The morning after the night that I was too concerned with getting the D myself and let my friend leave the bar with Father Time, she called me and I maybe yelled into the phone loud enough for him to hear, “Did you fuck that old man!?”. So, he likes me a lot, pretty much.

Anyway, it approached. I didn’t know if I should scream “Fire!”, stab him with my fork, smile, or start crying. I know dudes hate when ladies cry so that probably would’ve been my best plan of action. Unfortunately all common sense fell out of my asshole and I shoved a tater tot in my mouth and started chugging my beer. Sorry girl, you’re on your own.

It starts talking to my friend. It got really fucking weird, really fucking fast. My friend couldn’t form complete sentences because she wanted to die so the exchange went something like this:

It: “Hi. How are you?”

My friend: “Hi.”

It: “How are things? How’ve you been?”.

My friend: “Mmhm.”

Seriously. She literally put her legs up in the booth so he couldn’t sit down. But I think with old people they don’t understand subtle social cues. Lesson learned, next time I’m screaming fire and stealing his Life Alert. So it kept trying to make conversation. Then, the ultimate shade was thrown. It introduced itself to me and tried to shake my hand.

Ok. NOW IT’S ON MOTHER FUCKER. How dare Coronel Sanders pretend he doesn’t know me!? I don’t know YOU Colonel Sanders! I tried to reach an octave that’s acceptable to human ears while reminding him that he’s very fucking aware of who I am. My phone calls me Beyonce. Get your shit together old man!!

Now I’m pissed because that wrinkly balled son of a bitch tried to punk me and my friend is even closer to slitting her wrists with a butter knife and it still won’t go away. It just stands there asking weird questions and staring at us. Things have gone too far. He wasn’t even my ex but I was getting stress induced butt crack sweat. Life is a sick fucking joke guys.

After what seemed about 34 years, it must have realized that it was not allowed to sit with us and mumbled awkward parting words and moved away. At this point I wanted to flip a fucking table and stab everyone. My life is at the point where other people’s exes are it. NO.

I thought we had kept it pretty classy during this whole exchange. I didn’t even go Naomi Campbell on him for making eye contact with me by throwing my phone at his face. I didn’t throw a drink. I didn’t even pepper spray him. We chugged our beers, paid the tab and got the fuck out of there before it drank more and tried to get in the car with us. As we walked out, we laughed through the pain and hugged like survivors of war do. Then, something amazing happened.

During this whole situation a couple was sitting at a table kind of close to our booth. They seemed to be fully interested in some sporting event situation that was happening on the tv above us so we didn’t think they were paying any attention to our little telenovela playing out before them. But as we’re walking the guy stops us and says, “Dude, what was up with that old guy?”. DEAD.

My friend’s reply: “Oh my god. I used to do a lot of coke and I had sex with it. But then I stopped doing coke.”

Best. Explanation. Ever. Honestly, the horror that we had endured was suddenly worth it. The couple who looked like they hated everything were so into it. I’m gonna say it, I think we saved their relationship.

If my exes and my friend’s exes are going to follow me into 2016, at least let our mistakes inspire others and remind ladies and dudes that maybe their partner isn’t that bad. Also, friends don’t let friends fuck old men. Even if they have really good coke.

Happy 2016 mother fuckers.