Monday, October 10, 2016

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. 

Thursday, October 6, 2016

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.