Friday, February 5, 2016

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.