I hope this blog doesn't ruin the lives of too many men. Actually...fuck it...I hope it ruins all of their lives.
A little while back I was hanging out with a few friends drinking beers because clearly, what else would we be doing on a Sunday night with the hell that is Monday looming over us? I had just started having adult sleepovers with a new victim, I mean man-friend, and had mentioned it to my friends but didn't quite go into detail. Men, just a warning for you, I know you believe that we tell our girlfriends every brutal detail of our sexcapades but this isn't necessarily true. If we bone you and know for a fact you were a one-night stand, and you were wearing flannel in a non-ironic way with loafers, then chances are we will mock you mercilessly to our friends the next day and describe in vivid detail how weird your O-face was. However, if you may be around for rounds 2-7, we aren't going to bag on you. I mean seriously, if I mock you but I keep letting you penetrate me then who's the twat? That would be me in case you were distracted by the word twat.
My new man-friend happened to be part of the drinking crew and all was going well. No one had made any awkward comments or insisted we sit next to each other and then proceed to stare at us until at least one of us was contemplating faking an irritable bowel syndrome flare up. Then, just because Jesus obviously loves me, a Viagra commercial comes on. My friend, assuming it would just be funny, made a comment to man-friend about how maybe this commercial should be something he should pay attention to. Within seconds I was suffocating in awkwardness and literally hoped I would shit myself just to take attention away from what was just said. To try to play it off I sat there silently and prayed for death, while trying to make a face like nothing was wrong. Even though I'm pretty sure that I was dripping sweat and possibly dry heaving. Just when I thought maybe the moment would pass, man-friend says, "That's not really completely my fault." Ahhhhhh fuck. And my friend who has more tact than anyone I know yells, "You went soft!?" in the most deafening inside voice I have ever had the joy to experience.
See, I hadn't mentioned that one little part of our first encounter. We've all had a whiskey dick experience. Whether we're the girl working our jaw muscles until we feel like our face is going to fall off or you're the guy cursing his poor penis for taking early retirement. It's not that big of a deal. I don't take it personally when it happens. Clearly it's you, not me. I'm awesome and I know where my talents lie. As mentioned before, if you're a for sure one night stand and I plan on ignoring you next time I run into you at Fresh and Easy, I would tell my friends you were an epic fail and give you a witty nickname like "Soft Sam" or something else brilliant. But if I think you might be a 7 or higher on the cool scale I'm going to leave that little detail out. New man-friend made the mistake of assuming i'd told my friends everything and they were legitimately mocking him. A warning to all men, don't assume her friends know everything. If you tell on yourself, no one can fix that.
At this point we were all feeling a little awkward, and I think my friend felt bad about attacking new man-friend's in the sack skills, so she decided to change the subject. This is where the chastity bush comes in. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you're lying. But I'll let you pretend to be ignorant and explain anyway. The chastity bush is when a girl decides not to groom her nether regions to prevent herself from being a whore. This is done when we know we're going to drink a lot and run into an unattractive guy that we've boned in the past and we don't want a repeat performance. Or when we've been fucking more people than Jenna Jameson in an orgy scene and we need to simmer down before fetuses just start walking out of our vaginas. This seems like a great tactic. But then the inevitable happens. You decide to let the jungle go wild and after 18 Jager bombs and some weird little pill you get from the chick crying in the bathroom, you're ready to leave with just about anyone who's still standing and doesn't have vomit on their shirt/pants/shoes. Cut to 20 minutes later when you're licking Sam/Alex/Bob/Jim/John/whatever's face and remember that all hell has broken loose down there. Do I tell him? Do I just let him find out himself and act dumb? Lie and say I was just camping for two weeks and a bush keeps the bears away? In theory, the chastity bush is a fantastic idea. But I would still recommend keeping a razor and one of those travel sized shaving creams in your purse just in case. If he's a potential round 2-7 you don't want him showing up with goggles and a weed wacker the next time you text him "hi ;)" at 3 am.
The moral of the story, men don't assume we tell our friends everything. Just assume that they will hate you the second we discard you. And I'll just pretend that you aren't telling your friends about my chastity bush.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
status update: "i better do anal or i'm single again."
Why is it that the very second you change your relationship status on Facebook you feel like the next text you get is going to start off with, "Hey...we need to talk..."? With maybe a few more of these ... and possibly even one of those confused face emoticons that I fucking hate. I wasn't confused when I got your text but now that you added that little fucker I don't know what the hell this conversation is going to be about. So thank you for giving me butt crack sweat and a severe case of indigestion while I sit at my computer for the next 8 hours at a job that already makes me contemplate suicide on a regular basis.
For those of you who know me well I suck at relationships. Seriously. If I make it past date three that's like winning the Special Olympics. If I make it to month three that's like cheating and winning at the Special Olympics. Epic stuff. However I stand by my belief that it's because I'm too fun for anyone I've dated. They believe in things like sober days during the week. Also going to bed before midnight and having dinner without wine. What the fuck is that? I don't think you should force the person you date to become a Mormon. I didn't sign up for that shit and I'm not waiting until marriage...for anything.
The one time I felt enough confidence to actually update my Facebook status to "In A Relationship" I immediately regretted it. Now it's out there and before I could even refresh the page and decide maybe I wasn't ready the fucking thing had 87 likes and 54 comments. Weird since I only had 16 Facebook friends. The pressure was on. Now if it didn't work out the whole goddamn Facebook world would judge me. I'd be getting e-cards with inspirational messages like "You're better than that" or "There's more fish in the sea." Really? Is that a sperm reference because the last thing I want to think about is some rebel sperm penetrating my drunk little egg. Especially since for the next 7-8 years I only plan on having one night stands and lots of hate sex since men are evil and women are too fucking nuts for me to cross over to the other side.
Maybe this whole process would have been easier if Facebook had clearer delineations for what kind of relationships people are in. Instead of jumping right into "In A Relationship" I would have much preferred changing my status to "He doesn't make me want to vomit and I only consider punching him in the face once a week." And then maybe the next step would have been "I might be willing to put a finger in his ass during oral."These seem way more realistic. By the time we were ready to break up everyone would have been ready for it because I would have updated the status to "Does anyone know where to hide a body?". No shockers then when I suddenly became "Single" again.
After the first incident I swore I would never update my relationship status on Facebook. It was kind of easy since "Whoring it up" or "Trollin for dick" were never options anyway. Unfortunately every so often the embarrassing girl inside me exorcises my soul and makes me do things I consistently regret. In this case, after a bottle of wine (alright bitches two bottles of wine) I decided that I was taking the plunge and updating my relationship status. I literally paced back and forth in front of my computer for 20 minutes arguing out loud to myself. Thank god my neighbors already think I'm a psycho. Finally I did it and shut my computer off. Honestly I figured at this point the only more embarrassing thing would be to change it and then immediately change it back. I mean seriously...get a gun.
Of course within second my phone blows up with Facebook messages. And even cuter it posts my updated status as a huge billboard on my Facebook. Thank god I've gotten into the market of trading Xanax for Vicodin because it took more than they found in Brittany Murphy's bloodstream to get me through that first hour.
I was 100% sure that within the next 2 hours I was going to be dumped. He was going to come out of the closet, announce he has actually asexual and faked it every time, or that he was moving to Utah and becoming a Mormon. The third one would have literally driven me to suicide. I don't want to be responsible for making someone hate their life so much they want to swear off everything I enjoy about life. Every time I got a text message I thought I was going to shit my pants and/or barf on a stranger. Thank god for Costco and their bulk items.
All of this could have been prevented if Facebook would just pull their heads out of their asses and allow us to update our relationship status to something that makes sense. Mr. Facebook guy, if you're reading this, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to update my status to "My peesh is off limits, but I'm still fun."Put that as a Timeline billboard suckas.
For those of you who know me well I suck at relationships. Seriously. If I make it past date three that's like winning the Special Olympics. If I make it to month three that's like cheating and winning at the Special Olympics. Epic stuff. However I stand by my belief that it's because I'm too fun for anyone I've dated. They believe in things like sober days during the week. Also going to bed before midnight and having dinner without wine. What the fuck is that? I don't think you should force the person you date to become a Mormon. I didn't sign up for that shit and I'm not waiting until marriage...for anything.
The one time I felt enough confidence to actually update my Facebook status to "In A Relationship" I immediately regretted it. Now it's out there and before I could even refresh the page and decide maybe I wasn't ready the fucking thing had 87 likes and 54 comments. Weird since I only had 16 Facebook friends. The pressure was on. Now if it didn't work out the whole goddamn Facebook world would judge me. I'd be getting e-cards with inspirational messages like "You're better than that" or "There's more fish in the sea." Really? Is that a sperm reference because the last thing I want to think about is some rebel sperm penetrating my drunk little egg. Especially since for the next 7-8 years I only plan on having one night stands and lots of hate sex since men are evil and women are too fucking nuts for me to cross over to the other side.
Maybe this whole process would have been easier if Facebook had clearer delineations for what kind of relationships people are in. Instead of jumping right into "In A Relationship" I would have much preferred changing my status to "He doesn't make me want to vomit and I only consider punching him in the face once a week." And then maybe the next step would have been "I might be willing to put a finger in his ass during oral."These seem way more realistic. By the time we were ready to break up everyone would have been ready for it because I would have updated the status to "Does anyone know where to hide a body?". No shockers then when I suddenly became "Single" again.
After the first incident I swore I would never update my relationship status on Facebook. It was kind of easy since "Whoring it up" or "Trollin for dick" were never options anyway. Unfortunately every so often the embarrassing girl inside me exorcises my soul and makes me do things I consistently regret. In this case, after a bottle of wine (alright bitches two bottles of wine) I decided that I was taking the plunge and updating my relationship status. I literally paced back and forth in front of my computer for 20 minutes arguing out loud to myself. Thank god my neighbors already think I'm a psycho. Finally I did it and shut my computer off. Honestly I figured at this point the only more embarrassing thing would be to change it and then immediately change it back. I mean seriously...get a gun.
Of course within second my phone blows up with Facebook messages. And even cuter it posts my updated status as a huge billboard on my Facebook. Thank god I've gotten into the market of trading Xanax for Vicodin because it took more than they found in Brittany Murphy's bloodstream to get me through that first hour.
I was 100% sure that within the next 2 hours I was going to be dumped. He was going to come out of the closet, announce he has actually asexual and faked it every time, or that he was moving to Utah and becoming a Mormon. The third one would have literally driven me to suicide. I don't want to be responsible for making someone hate their life so much they want to swear off everything I enjoy about life. Every time I got a text message I thought I was going to shit my pants and/or barf on a stranger. Thank god for Costco and their bulk items.
All of this could have been prevented if Facebook would just pull their heads out of their asses and allow us to update our relationship status to something that makes sense. Mr. Facebook guy, if you're reading this, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to update my status to "My peesh is off limits, but I'm still fun."Put that as a Timeline billboard suckas.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
really though, what would lindsey do?
Tis the season to get drunk off of your parent's alcohol and put ex-lax in your smug brother's food and then "accidentally" lock all the bathrooms so you can take video of him shitting in the yard and blow up your Twitter with raw footage. This is also the time when people make their New Year's resolutions; knowing full well that you'll start the New Year rolling yourself out from under a hairy man's body and trying to sneak out of his dorm room (fuuuuck not again, I swear he was 30!) with enough clothing to avoid an indecent exposure charge. Yet we continue to make these ridiculous resolutions because Cosmo tells us to...I don't know why it's so god damn hard to say no to those whores.
I've decided that I will make a few resolutions this year. But first I'll explain why yours are fucking stupid.
Resolution 1: I will be a better employee, friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc.
This resolution is probably why the suicide rate is so high near the holidays. First of all, I'll consider becoming a better employee when I make as much money as I deserve. In my opinion I'm worth $80,000 a year. Since I'm pretty positive that will never happen, I will continue to not give a fuck about my job and call my students cunts when they have a rage blackout on the phone. Give me a raise and I can afford enough Botox to keep my face in a permanent smile and enough meds to project faux happiness. As a friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc. I'm fucking flawless. I ensure I take enough happy pills to last the whole time we're hanging out so I don't have an emotion to ruin the night and I always have alcohol in my home...always. I don't even need to explain my obsession with my dog. That bastard eats better than I do and has more accessories than Suri Cruise. Yeah Suri, I said it. But feel free to decide you want to be a better friend to me. I'll take appreciation in the forms of cash, pills, booze and maybe a leg hump or two if you're on my bucket list.
Resolution 2: Lose 5-185 lbs.
So most of us can stand to lose a few pound. I'm looking at you Mary Kate. I know you ate a cracker yesterday, I can smell it on your breath you quitter. However it's the moment that you decide that you will go on a diet that you suddenly have the urge to consume an entire bag of Flamin Hot Lays and see how many Big Macs can fit in your stomach. You also start to wonder if those dog cookies are really that good. I mean you should probably taste what your pets eat right? Don't moms test food before they feed it to their babies? Uh, where was I? Oh right, diets. Instead of making a resolution to follow the Lohan diet and filling my fridge with sugar-free Red Bull and cocaine, I'll just decide that I'm too poor to eat at McDonalds. This could also be a true fact but I guess you'll never know. Just keep in mind that any change left in my couch is mine you son of a bitches.
Resolution 3: Find Mr. Right.
This one is my favorite. I don't care how many feminists stop shaving and have bushes growing out of their polyester running shorts, these bitches are still pining for Mr. Right. Every year we decide that we'll stop chatting up the douchebags at the bar and start giving the nice guys a chance. And every year we spill our beer on the nice guy trying to push the blonde with the fake tits and hair extensions out of the way to get to the douche bag in the flannel shirt and "ironic" Buddy Holly glasses. Or the one in the band that hasn't really started and just bought a guitar two days ago, still in the case. Awesome. Maybe some of us find Mr. Right, but it's probably because he gave you a ride home and held your hair back as you vomited after the douche bag ditched you for one of those hipster chicks. I'm going to be a realist here and say that there's a 100% chance that I will not find Mr. Right this year. However, I will make a commitment to testing out as many possibilities as my peesh can handle.
Resolution 4: Kick bad habits: drinking, smoking, whoring, cursing, etc.
Two words: FUCK THIS. If I wanted to be boring and sober I would have gone to rehab at 16 and moved to Utah. The best part of my day is getting home so I can crack open a beer or bottle of wine, smoke a cigarette on my balcony and put all my pills in a bag, shake it, reach in and take the two that I grab first. Some might call this reckless, I call it Monday - Thursday. We'll get into what happens Friday-Sunday next time. I plan on continuing all of my bad habits. I've come this far and 27 is the golden age right? Bring it on cirrhosis of the liver and emphysema. I've had a good run.
So while the rest of you resolution makers are out there getting gym passes, baking your neighbors cookies, working late and throwing out the vodka bottles you usually hide under your bathroom sink just know that I'm proud of you. You can find me smoking, yelling "Fuck" and taking body shots off the guy who looks like Vinny from Jersey Shore before we go to Taco Bell with the change you left in my couch.
See you bitches in 2012.
I've decided that I will make a few resolutions this year. But first I'll explain why yours are fucking stupid.
Resolution 1: I will be a better employee, friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc.
This resolution is probably why the suicide rate is so high near the holidays. First of all, I'll consider becoming a better employee when I make as much money as I deserve. In my opinion I'm worth $80,000 a year. Since I'm pretty positive that will never happen, I will continue to not give a fuck about my job and call my students cunts when they have a rage blackout on the phone. Give me a raise and I can afford enough Botox to keep my face in a permanent smile and enough meds to project faux happiness. As a friend, ex-girlfriend, dog-owner, etc. I'm fucking flawless. I ensure I take enough happy pills to last the whole time we're hanging out so I don't have an emotion to ruin the night and I always have alcohol in my home...always. I don't even need to explain my obsession with my dog. That bastard eats better than I do and has more accessories than Suri Cruise. Yeah Suri, I said it. But feel free to decide you want to be a better friend to me. I'll take appreciation in the forms of cash, pills, booze and maybe a leg hump or two if you're on my bucket list.
Resolution 2: Lose 5-185 lbs.
So most of us can stand to lose a few pound. I'm looking at you Mary Kate. I know you ate a cracker yesterday, I can smell it on your breath you quitter. However it's the moment that you decide that you will go on a diet that you suddenly have the urge to consume an entire bag of Flamin Hot Lays and see how many Big Macs can fit in your stomach. You also start to wonder if those dog cookies are really that good. I mean you should probably taste what your pets eat right? Don't moms test food before they feed it to their babies? Uh, where was I? Oh right, diets. Instead of making a resolution to follow the Lohan diet and filling my fridge with sugar-free Red Bull and cocaine, I'll just decide that I'm too poor to eat at McDonalds. This could also be a true fact but I guess you'll never know. Just keep in mind that any change left in my couch is mine you son of a bitches.
Resolution 3: Find Mr. Right.
This one is my favorite. I don't care how many feminists stop shaving and have bushes growing out of their polyester running shorts, these bitches are still pining for Mr. Right. Every year we decide that we'll stop chatting up the douchebags at the bar and start giving the nice guys a chance. And every year we spill our beer on the nice guy trying to push the blonde with the fake tits and hair extensions out of the way to get to the douche bag in the flannel shirt and "ironic" Buddy Holly glasses. Or the one in the band that hasn't really started and just bought a guitar two days ago, still in the case. Awesome. Maybe some of us find Mr. Right, but it's probably because he gave you a ride home and held your hair back as you vomited after the douche bag ditched you for one of those hipster chicks. I'm going to be a realist here and say that there's a 100% chance that I will not find Mr. Right this year. However, I will make a commitment to testing out as many possibilities as my peesh can handle.
Resolution 4: Kick bad habits: drinking, smoking, whoring, cursing, etc.
Two words: FUCK THIS. If I wanted to be boring and sober I would have gone to rehab at 16 and moved to Utah. The best part of my day is getting home so I can crack open a beer or bottle of wine, smoke a cigarette on my balcony and put all my pills in a bag, shake it, reach in and take the two that I grab first. Some might call this reckless, I call it Monday - Thursday. We'll get into what happens Friday-Sunday next time. I plan on continuing all of my bad habits. I've come this far and 27 is the golden age right? Bring it on cirrhosis of the liver and emphysema. I've had a good run.
So while the rest of you resolution makers are out there getting gym passes, baking your neighbors cookies, working late and throwing out the vodka bottles you usually hide under your bathroom sink just know that I'm proud of you. You can find me smoking, yelling "Fuck" and taking body shots off the guy who looks like Vinny from Jersey Shore before we go to Taco Bell with the change you left in my couch.
See you bitches in 2012.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
have you met my friend jenn?
Yes, if you're wondering, that was a "How I Met Your Mother" reference. I felt it was necessary since this blog will loosely reference a few Barney's I've had in my life. Maybe a few Ted's and Robin's too. And if you hate that show fuck you, go read Kim Kardashian's blog. She doesn't like to move her face muscles either. Or do any type of deep breathing that might slightly flare her nostrils and take the attention away from her huge tits. She used daddy's money for those god dammit. Or her stepmother Bruce Jenner's money. But let's get back to the important topic here...me.
I have quite often found myself President, Vice President and Treasurer of the Third Wheel Club. Sometimes I even act as Interim-President of the Fifth, Seven and Ninth Wheel Clubs during three-day weekends and group outings. Now don't get me wrong, I love my current couple friends and loved many of my past couple friends. However if we're being completely honest, I did sometimes picture, for just a second or two, one of them getting plastered and making out with a stranger at the bar. Or deciding not to hold that rage back until the car ride home and flipping a table and screaming, "Prostitute whore!" at their significant other similar to the ever so classy Teresa Guidouche. No really, I was happy that they were happy and we were all so fucking happy I wanted to vomit all over myself and drown in the regurgitated gallons of beer I necessarily consumed every time I hung out with them.
It's funny how being the Third Wheel should make me feel like the Haylie Duff of the group, which is a joke because I'm clearly the dead-eyed Britney Spears that needs to be held up by my "back-up dancers", but it's always the couples that feel weird. They feel like they have to compensate and work at making me feel comfortable. This usually plays out one of the four ways:
1. Plying me with alcohol so I forget that I'm single and alone and therefore quite clearly on the verge of suicide. This generally works in my favor. I will never turn down a free drink. And if that turns into 6 Jager bombs and an oddly fizzing jack and coke that I weirdly black out after drinking, no complaints here. Even better if I wake up the next day and don't have 18 missed calls, 43 texts from numbers that I don't recognize asking if I've been tested recently, and a note pinned to my shirt with my blood type listed.
2. The set-up that's not really a set-up, just a strange sequence of events that result in two single friends ending up smashed into a booth together with a couple that have the acting skills of a Yellow Crayon. This time I'm paying for my own drinks because the random friend that shows up ends up being a former Wal-Mart employee who is unable to find a new job because of a mix-up with a drug test and alleged 4-month lapse in paying child support. This is when self-administiring a roofie is extremely tempting, but no way in hell am I raising this baby alone you son of a bitch! I'm expecting a night of free booze again, when all I get is an awkward three hours of trying to decide what's more important, my last ounce of pride or just licking the guy's face so I can maybe finagle a free body shot or at least pretend that I don't want my friends to die in a car fire. Please note, I have never met a quality guy through my couple friends. Is this a sign? Oh Jesus...where's that roofie I hid last weekend...
3. Trying to pawn me off on some random dude at the bar. One second I'm saying that the dude in the red shirt down at the end of the bar may not be a troll and the next second I'm being shoved in his direction like an 18-year old being sent off to college by her horny parents who can't wait to turn her bedroom into an "office". Now he's staring at me and I feel like I have no choice but to follow through. Now I don't have many flaws, only 1 and 1/2 to be specific, and first impressions are the 1/2. Unless I'm blacked out. Then I nail them every time. I'm so fucking charming it's ridiculous when I'm strategically placing my arms to hide the Jager stain on my shirt and trying to pull my dress out of my tights. But during a sober moment, my opening line sometimes consists of things like, "Hey, is your name Jeff? No of course it's not. Sorry I just said that to try to talk to you. I'm going to see if it's possible to drown myself in the sink now. Nice to meet you." Weirdly he didn't ask for my number. However I do think he asked security to keep me away from him. So I nailed it, clearly.
4. The "I hate being in a relationship" conversation. This one is my favorite. Boyfriend pisses off girlfriend earlier in the day by eating the last of the Doritoes when he knew she was going to wait until he left so she could eat them and pretend like he did the night before. Girlfriend drinks her fourth vodka tonic and unleashes about how big a prick boyfriend is. And how I'm so lucky that I can do whatever I want and go home with whoever I want and no one ever asks me where I'm going and what I'm doing and why I never wear my black lace thong anymore. This is the last thing a single person wants to hear. Yeah no dude ever eats the rest of my Doritoes but I also don't have one to kill that huge ass mother fucking cockroach in my kitchen, walk my dog at 5:30am when I'm freezing my nuts off and bitch slap the asshole at the bar that takes my barstool and steps on my new boot. So shut the fuck up and go home and make him hang that picture you've wanted up in your room for months. Fingers crossed he'll hammer his thumb on accident.
A word of advice to all of you couples that do any or all of the above to your single friends, we may be on the verge of suicide during the holidays while we debate how tragic it would be if we send out a Christmas card with a picture of us and our dog, but don't make it worse. Or I will fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend. And yes I have been tested, thank you for checking (562) 265-1098.
I have quite often found myself President, Vice President and Treasurer of the Third Wheel Club. Sometimes I even act as Interim-President of the Fifth, Seven and Ninth Wheel Clubs during three-day weekends and group outings. Now don't get me wrong, I love my current couple friends and loved many of my past couple friends. However if we're being completely honest, I did sometimes picture, for just a second or two, one of them getting plastered and making out with a stranger at the bar. Or deciding not to hold that rage back until the car ride home and flipping a table and screaming, "Prostitute whore!" at their significant other similar to the ever so classy Teresa Guidouche. No really, I was happy that they were happy and we were all so fucking happy I wanted to vomit all over myself and drown in the regurgitated gallons of beer I necessarily consumed every time I hung out with them.
It's funny how being the Third Wheel should make me feel like the Haylie Duff of the group, which is a joke because I'm clearly the dead-eyed Britney Spears that needs to be held up by my "back-up dancers", but it's always the couples that feel weird. They feel like they have to compensate and work at making me feel comfortable. This usually plays out one of the four ways:
1. Plying me with alcohol so I forget that I'm single and alone and therefore quite clearly on the verge of suicide. This generally works in my favor. I will never turn down a free drink. And if that turns into 6 Jager bombs and an oddly fizzing jack and coke that I weirdly black out after drinking, no complaints here. Even better if I wake up the next day and don't have 18 missed calls, 43 texts from numbers that I don't recognize asking if I've been tested recently, and a note pinned to my shirt with my blood type listed.
2. The set-up that's not really a set-up, just a strange sequence of events that result in two single friends ending up smashed into a booth together with a couple that have the acting skills of a Yellow Crayon. This time I'm paying for my own drinks because the random friend that shows up ends up being a former Wal-Mart employee who is unable to find a new job because of a mix-up with a drug test and alleged 4-month lapse in paying child support. This is when self-administiring a roofie is extremely tempting, but no way in hell am I raising this baby alone you son of a bitch! I'm expecting a night of free booze again, when all I get is an awkward three hours of trying to decide what's more important, my last ounce of pride or just licking the guy's face so I can maybe finagle a free body shot or at least pretend that I don't want my friends to die in a car fire. Please note, I have never met a quality guy through my couple friends. Is this a sign? Oh Jesus...where's that roofie I hid last weekend...
3. Trying to pawn me off on some random dude at the bar. One second I'm saying that the dude in the red shirt down at the end of the bar may not be a troll and the next second I'm being shoved in his direction like an 18-year old being sent off to college by her horny parents who can't wait to turn her bedroom into an "office". Now he's staring at me and I feel like I have no choice but to follow through. Now I don't have many flaws, only 1 and 1/2 to be specific, and first impressions are the 1/2. Unless I'm blacked out. Then I nail them every time. I'm so fucking charming it's ridiculous when I'm strategically placing my arms to hide the Jager stain on my shirt and trying to pull my dress out of my tights. But during a sober moment, my opening line sometimes consists of things like, "Hey, is your name Jeff? No of course it's not. Sorry I just said that to try to talk to you. I'm going to see if it's possible to drown myself in the sink now. Nice to meet you." Weirdly he didn't ask for my number. However I do think he asked security to keep me away from him. So I nailed it, clearly.
4. The "I hate being in a relationship" conversation. This one is my favorite. Boyfriend pisses off girlfriend earlier in the day by eating the last of the Doritoes when he knew she was going to wait until he left so she could eat them and pretend like he did the night before. Girlfriend drinks her fourth vodka tonic and unleashes about how big a prick boyfriend is. And how I'm so lucky that I can do whatever I want and go home with whoever I want and no one ever asks me where I'm going and what I'm doing and why I never wear my black lace thong anymore. This is the last thing a single person wants to hear. Yeah no dude ever eats the rest of my Doritoes but I also don't have one to kill that huge ass mother fucking cockroach in my kitchen, walk my dog at 5:30am when I'm freezing my nuts off and bitch slap the asshole at the bar that takes my barstool and steps on my new boot. So shut the fuck up and go home and make him hang that picture you've wanted up in your room for months. Fingers crossed he'll hammer his thumb on accident.
A word of advice to all of you couples that do any or all of the above to your single friends, we may be on the verge of suicide during the holidays while we debate how tragic it would be if we send out a Christmas card with a picture of us and our dog, but don't make it worse. Or I will fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend. And yes I have been tested, thank you for checking (562) 265-1098.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
is that toilet paper on my shoe or a used condom?
Growing up in the Litfun/Reed/Cole household it became clear very early on that the weak do not survive. If you show weakness, you will be shoved behind the couch for hours desperately trying not to piss your pants while your siblings mock you and throw things at your face. Maybe even threaten to pee on you...just to see if that will break the seal. Death threats, red ants down diapers, broken legs, just to name a few, were a pretty frequent occurrence. When you're harassed and humiliated as a child, you handle embarrassing moments a little more gracefully as an adult. I blame my childhood traumas for fucking up my mental capacity for understanding when I should, or should not be embarrassed.
Example one: Walking into a bar, restaurant, party, someone's apartments, etc. alone really freaks me out. I get this moment of panic that I'll walk in and the people I'm supposed to meet aren't going to be there. Or I'm going to get slimed like I'm Miley fucking Cyrus at the fucking Teens Douche Awards and this new shirt that I spent my grocery money on will be ruined; and everyone will laugh. I'm completely in awe of people that can go to movies alone, even if they're sitting in the back touching themselves to the Twilight movies, I still give you props. Though the high five will have to wait until you wash those egg implanters off your hands.
However I am not embarrassed to walk into a party and yell, "Who do I need to blow around here to play beer pong?" I have even less shame over the fact that I kept my promise and got to hear my little brother tell my parents all about their skank of a daughter over coffee the next morning. It didn't even faze me that good old mom drove over to the brothel the next morning to check out my conquest and then critiqued him for 20 minutes. Thanks mom, I'll make sure to remember that next time. Or the next, next, next time. This would mortify most people, to me, it's just another Sunday.
Example two: Every time I go grocery shopping I feel like the cashier and the bagger are judging me. Sometimes all I want to buy are three bags of Doritoes, cheese, and beer. But as I look into my cart I start to think about what this looks like. What am I a 21 year old boy? So out of guilt I throw some vegetables in there, maybe a loaf of bread, orange juice, and batteries. I have so many fucking batteries in my house its ridiculous. I could supply the porn industry with enough batteries to keep those dildos going for months. I'll even admit that one time a cashier at Vons, who I hope dies in a car fire, commented on my purchases. That son of a bitch started saying out loud what he was bagging. I wanted to choke him to death. I wanted to go back in time and stomp his mother's cervix when he was still a fetus. Instead I made up some lie about shopping for my roommate and ran out of there so fast I think I trampled a toddler. Whatever bitch your mom should have stopped by the condom aisle two years ago, not my problem. Talk about a bitch slap to my self-esteem.
The grocery incident gave me a nervous breakdown. But I felt it was perfectly acceptable to take off my underroos in the back patio at a bar and pee in the dirt. Not the bushes, in the dirt like a god damn cat. The smokers stared and I didn't give one shit. I think I even asked one of them to hold my underwear and check my dress for pee stains when I was finished. At that point I'm sure they would have much rather watched me sit in the dirt eating Doritoes and chugging beers. Maybe even changing batteries in all of my appliances. Note: this has not been the first time I've peed in an inappropriate place, and I'm pretty sure that it won't be the last. Stay tuned.
Example three: Doing laundry in my apartment building scares the shit out of me. I'm freaked out for the following reasons (1) one of my neighbors will be in there the same time as me and wonder why my blankets are covered in vomit (my cat is Bulimic, I swear!); (2) I will trip and fall while walking with my laundry basket and my bras and underwear and godawful sweat pants will rain down on the apartments below me; (3) one of my neighbors will steal a pair of my underwear and be disappointed with their choice and throw them in the trash where I will find them. This is why I schlep my 5 trash bags full of laundry to Buena Park every few weeks. Because I am a fucking weirdo.
On the other hand, I will describe in full detail embarrassing shit that happens to me. To anyone. The first time I met my friend's boyfriend, literally within 7 second of meeting him, I told him how my ex-boyfriend had rejected me when I tried to seduce him with dinner and lingerie. To me this was a completely normal conversation to have with a stranger. I mean he asked how I was doing right? I also constantly over share with my poor neighbors. I can't ever answer their "How's it going question?" without a 4 minute monologue about waking up in a gutter or puking on my own shoes. Fortunately I think they find me entertaining since they haven't moved out yet.
Most people tell me they find my Facebook updates entertaining because they're offensive and out of control. I'm more than happy to tell you about my one-night stand but don't you dare fucking ask me to do my laundry and go grocery shopping with you. Too much, too soon, too far.
Example one: Walking into a bar, restaurant, party, someone's apartments, etc. alone really freaks me out. I get this moment of panic that I'll walk in and the people I'm supposed to meet aren't going to be there. Or I'm going to get slimed like I'm Miley fucking Cyrus at the fucking Teens Douche Awards and this new shirt that I spent my grocery money on will be ruined; and everyone will laugh. I'm completely in awe of people that can go to movies alone, even if they're sitting in the back touching themselves to the Twilight movies, I still give you props. Though the high five will have to wait until you wash those egg implanters off your hands.
However I am not embarrassed to walk into a party and yell, "Who do I need to blow around here to play beer pong?" I have even less shame over the fact that I kept my promise and got to hear my little brother tell my parents all about their skank of a daughter over coffee the next morning. It didn't even faze me that good old mom drove over to the brothel the next morning to check out my conquest and then critiqued him for 20 minutes. Thanks mom, I'll make sure to remember that next time. Or the next, next, next time. This would mortify most people, to me, it's just another Sunday.
Example two: Every time I go grocery shopping I feel like the cashier and the bagger are judging me. Sometimes all I want to buy are three bags of Doritoes, cheese, and beer. But as I look into my cart I start to think about what this looks like. What am I a 21 year old boy? So out of guilt I throw some vegetables in there, maybe a loaf of bread, orange juice, and batteries. I have so many fucking batteries in my house its ridiculous. I could supply the porn industry with enough batteries to keep those dildos going for months. I'll even admit that one time a cashier at Vons, who I hope dies in a car fire, commented on my purchases. That son of a bitch started saying out loud what he was bagging. I wanted to choke him to death. I wanted to go back in time and stomp his mother's cervix when he was still a fetus. Instead I made up some lie about shopping for my roommate and ran out of there so fast I think I trampled a toddler. Whatever bitch your mom should have stopped by the condom aisle two years ago, not my problem. Talk about a bitch slap to my self-esteem.
The grocery incident gave me a nervous breakdown. But I felt it was perfectly acceptable to take off my underroos in the back patio at a bar and pee in the dirt. Not the bushes, in the dirt like a god damn cat. The smokers stared and I didn't give one shit. I think I even asked one of them to hold my underwear and check my dress for pee stains when I was finished. At that point I'm sure they would have much rather watched me sit in the dirt eating Doritoes and chugging beers. Maybe even changing batteries in all of my appliances. Note: this has not been the first time I've peed in an inappropriate place, and I'm pretty sure that it won't be the last. Stay tuned.
Example three: Doing laundry in my apartment building scares the shit out of me. I'm freaked out for the following reasons (1) one of my neighbors will be in there the same time as me and wonder why my blankets are covered in vomit (my cat is Bulimic, I swear!); (2) I will trip and fall while walking with my laundry basket and my bras and underwear and godawful sweat pants will rain down on the apartments below me; (3) one of my neighbors will steal a pair of my underwear and be disappointed with their choice and throw them in the trash where I will find them. This is why I schlep my 5 trash bags full of laundry to Buena Park every few weeks. Because I am a fucking weirdo.
On the other hand, I will describe in full detail embarrassing shit that happens to me. To anyone. The first time I met my friend's boyfriend, literally within 7 second of meeting him, I told him how my ex-boyfriend had rejected me when I tried to seduce him with dinner and lingerie. To me this was a completely normal conversation to have with a stranger. I mean he asked how I was doing right? I also constantly over share with my poor neighbors. I can't ever answer their "How's it going question?" without a 4 minute monologue about waking up in a gutter or puking on my own shoes. Fortunately I think they find me entertaining since they haven't moved out yet.
Most people tell me they find my Facebook updates entertaining because they're offensive and out of control. I'm more than happy to tell you about my one-night stand but don't you dare fucking ask me to do my laundry and go grocery shopping with you. Too much, too soon, too far.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
is it dick o'clock yet?
Everyone has had a one night stand of sorts. Whether you merely spooned with a stranger and played the who's vomit is in bed with us the next morning game or if you went all out and let them dirty Sanchez you while you called them multiple names figuring at least once you got it right...maybe. The chances that his name was Ryan, Brian, Mike or Chris are pretty good right? I don't know I'm not a fucking machine so don't ask me for the statistics. Google it bitch.
These one night stands usual stem from the dick o'clock phenomenon as my brother so sweetly refers to it. We've all experienced this moment. It's when the people start scrambling at the bar and lower their expectations. When you succumb to the reality that there's no way in hell you're going home with an 8 tonight, shit with those pants on you didn't even have a chance at a 6 (even before you smeared your eyeliner all over your face and dribbled Jager down your shirt), and decide "Fuck it, a 4 will do just fine." You can watch this moment of clarity hit. Suddenly the guy trying to suck it in and look mysterious dry humps the girl with puke in her hair next to him and squints his eyes a little to convince himself she's cute. And the girl who told her friends an hour ago that she was definitely NOT going home with another loser rubs her boobs on the douchebag next to her at the bar twating about how awesome his new tires on his lifted truck are.
Now dick o'clock doesn't just affect those of us with an infinity for bars. It's actually almost even better at a house party. All bets are off when people realize they have about 15 minutes to put their hands down someone's pants or they're curling up on the floor alone, without a pillow and about a 90% chance of pissing themselves at some point in the middle of the night. At least if someone is next to you, you can blame the pee on them; there's a good chance they won't even deny it. Again people lower their standards and choose whoever is still standing, or at least breathing. Anything with a pulse is fair game at 3:00am.
I have been a victim of dick o'clock. Most recently at my friend's birthday party. I went there knowing with the amount of booze I would be drinking that the pants were coming off. I've learned to accept myself for the whore that I am. I would like to thank Courtney Love for this. She is my whorespiration. I told myself, nothing less than a 7. Big dreams right? So obviously I went for the 9...I even thought I had a pretty good line about having him show me around his van. Clearly I shot too high too early. It wasn't early enough for him to lower his standards, I can accept this. I may not even punch him in the throat next time I see him. Ha...that's a lie.
So my big dreams didn't work out. I contemplated the 6's hanging around. I thought, what would Lindsey do? Which led to the vodka shots. Suddenly I realized it was dick o'clock and I couldn't discern a 10 from a troll. So I did what any intelligent girl would; turned to the guy closest to me and asked him if he liked to cuddle. Surprise, surprise...he majored in cuddling at community college. Fantastic!
We can now fast forward to the next morning when I woke up next to ChrisRyanBrianMike and squinted my eyes and ignored the fact that I might have had my head in someone's pee and thanked Courtney again for her wisdom.
What happens in San Diego stays in San Diego right? I hope that weird itching and burning stayed there too.
These one night stands usual stem from the dick o'clock phenomenon as my brother so sweetly refers to it. We've all experienced this moment. It's when the people start scrambling at the bar and lower their expectations. When you succumb to the reality that there's no way in hell you're going home with an 8 tonight, shit with those pants on you didn't even have a chance at a 6 (even before you smeared your eyeliner all over your face and dribbled Jager down your shirt), and decide "Fuck it, a 4 will do just fine." You can watch this moment of clarity hit. Suddenly the guy trying to suck it in and look mysterious dry humps the girl with puke in her hair next to him and squints his eyes a little to convince himself she's cute. And the girl who told her friends an hour ago that she was definitely NOT going home with another loser rubs her boobs on the douchebag next to her at the bar twating about how awesome his new tires on his lifted truck are.
Now dick o'clock doesn't just affect those of us with an infinity for bars. It's actually almost even better at a house party. All bets are off when people realize they have about 15 minutes to put their hands down someone's pants or they're curling up on the floor alone, without a pillow and about a 90% chance of pissing themselves at some point in the middle of the night. At least if someone is next to you, you can blame the pee on them; there's a good chance they won't even deny it. Again people lower their standards and choose whoever is still standing, or at least breathing. Anything with a pulse is fair game at 3:00am.
I have been a victim of dick o'clock. Most recently at my friend's birthday party. I went there knowing with the amount of booze I would be drinking that the pants were coming off. I've learned to accept myself for the whore that I am. I would like to thank Courtney Love for this. She is my whorespiration. I told myself, nothing less than a 7. Big dreams right? So obviously I went for the 9...I even thought I had a pretty good line about having him show me around his van. Clearly I shot too high too early. It wasn't early enough for him to lower his standards, I can accept this. I may not even punch him in the throat next time I see him. Ha...that's a lie.
So my big dreams didn't work out. I contemplated the 6's hanging around. I thought, what would Lindsey do? Which led to the vodka shots. Suddenly I realized it was dick o'clock and I couldn't discern a 10 from a troll. So I did what any intelligent girl would; turned to the guy closest to me and asked him if he liked to cuddle. Surprise, surprise...he majored in cuddling at community college. Fantastic!
We can now fast forward to the next morning when I woke up next to ChrisRyanBrianMike and squinted my eyes and ignored the fact that I might have had my head in someone's pee and thanked Courtney again for her wisdom.
What happens in San Diego stays in San Diego right? I hope that weird itching and burning stayed there too.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
nice to see you...dick.
I've been technically single for a long, long time. If there was a phrase to use that actually epitomized how long it's actually been without making me sound like there's dust bunnies in my vagina I would use it. More or less I've been on the trolling for dick train for quite a while. This means that the amount of horrible dating stories I have is too tragic to even compile. I hate dating more than I hate terrorism. Honestly, I'd rather be water boarded than deal with this dating bullshit.
However, my favorite part of dating is the break up. I know that sounds like a defense mechanism that I'm using to avoid talking about my grief and heart ache. But no joke, I stick it out until I literally can't stand to see that person's face for one more second. I let them fester like an open wound and drive me to the point of upping my meds and alcohol intake by 40%. If you know anything about me that amount would kill most. For some reason I feel like if I keep them around until the next step could only be a murder suicide then somehow I'm some kind of fucked up relationship martyr. To sum this all up, once I'm done with them I wish they could be sucked into some vortex and moved to another universe where everyone has herpes. I clearly don't hold grudges.
Since I have yet to discover how to vortex these sons of bitches out of my universe, I'm unlucky enough to run into them when I least expect it. Example one, running into the mama's boy I dated at CVS when I was on the verge of either puking my guts out or shitting my pants. As I tried to duck down behind a maxi-pad display clutching my economy sized container of Pepto Bismol and every kind of over the counter cough medicine the store had, I prayed that my intestine would cooperate with me just this once and I would never eat a burrito again. At least two women walked by in sweat pants and gave me looks of pity as I crouched there for what felt like hours. Usually I would have thrown a camel toe insult their way but at that moment in time they actually were better than me. I had butt crack sweat for god's sake. You win ladies, you win.
Example number two, running into Chris, the one who'd had his penis in every 18-year old raver in Orange County. I was nursing one of the worst hangovers I had ever had, literally sweating Jager and silently apologizing to my liver for putting her through so much. I had on my dress from the night before and smelled like I had rolled around in smoke, urine and a little bit of ass. I decided to run into a liquor store to buy some water before my brain exploded and my adorable new car turned into a Law & Order crime scene. As I stared blankly at my 20 different water choices (seriously why the fuck are there so many different kinds of bottled water?) I heard a familiar voice coming from directly behind me. The brain cells that I had left screamed at me not to turn around. The ones that were clearly still partying must have been controlling my limbs because I turned around. There he was. That tall, skinny, son of a bitch. Now I probably still could have gotten away at that point but of course I made some weird noise that was a hybrid between a dry heave and a nervous giggle. Eye contact was made and before he could say anything I said "I'm doing great thanks!" in the highest voice that has ever come out of me and bolted out of the store. This is the first time I realized I am a freak. Who tells someone how they are doing without the person asking? I guess I really showed him that I was better off without him. Idiot.
A few months ago I was kind of seeing this guy, PW. PW was hot. Like smokin hot. I generally tend to avoid dating super attractive people because they take too much energy. Also I kind of prefer to be the more attractive one. Then they can worry about me upgrading since clearly I can. Anyway, I had a super big crush on this guy. Did I mention he was hot? Also, because life isn't fair, he was funny and kind of nerdy and had these cute little freckles on his nose. I want to barf just thinking about him. I completely messed up my system. I texted him first and then checked my phone 10 times a day to see if he'd texted me back. Then, instead of waiting an hour to text him back like a smart girl would, I was lucky if I could wait 4 seconds. What a loser right? One night, after a little too much wine and an overdose on doritos, I texted him with the whole "What are we?" question. I'm pretty sure I already mentioned that life isn't fair, but just to reiterate, of course the response I received was "It's not you, it's me". Get a gun.
Since I had clearly given him the power during our short relationship, I was NOT giving him the power when we had our inevitable run in. No fucking way. For the next three weeks I never left the house in less than a god damn prom dress and full hair and make-up. I was the best dressed person walking their dog at 6:00am. Take that you jogging whores in your sweatpants. I kept thinking the run-in would happen and it never did. Then I did the stupidest thing I possibly could and got comfortable. After a 3 hour boozefest at my house a few friends and I decided to head to the bar where I met PW. The sober part of my brain probably knew this was a bad idea, but the drunk part of my brain that approved of my partially slutty outfit was ready to do this.
I get to the bar, I'm feeling good. About an hour in, still no PW sighting. Alright I thought, bring on the shots let's get this shitshow really going. The moment I realize, maybe it's time to switch to beer (water is never an option), I spot him at the bar. We make eye contact. I'm trying to decide what I'm going to say. Should I mention a new fake boyfriend? Start laughing with my friends at a non-existent joke? Lick someone's face? I didn't even need to worry about it because he just turned around and walked away. I should have just realized I dodged a bullet and snuck out the back door. But that would be what a sane person would do. I on the other hand decided to follow him outside and spy on him. Let's fast forward past the seeing him with another girl and taking tequila shots with her and laughing that laugh I really liked a lot. We'll fast forward right to me having a drunk, public mental breakdown outside the bar. Yup, I was THAT girl. The girl that strangers walk by and think "I'm glad that's not me." The girl that a random drunk dude comes up and hugs and says something inspirational like "He's not worth it" while trying to figure out how he can get me blow him. I was every sorority girl's nightmare.
This is when I realized, running into an ex will NEVER go the way we want it to. So next time I'm just going to smile, take a deep breath, and punch that asshole in the face.
However, my favorite part of dating is the break up. I know that sounds like a defense mechanism that I'm using to avoid talking about my grief and heart ache. But no joke, I stick it out until I literally can't stand to see that person's face for one more second. I let them fester like an open wound and drive me to the point of upping my meds and alcohol intake by 40%. If you know anything about me that amount would kill most. For some reason I feel like if I keep them around until the next step could only be a murder suicide then somehow I'm some kind of fucked up relationship martyr. To sum this all up, once I'm done with them I wish they could be sucked into some vortex and moved to another universe where everyone has herpes. I clearly don't hold grudges.
Since I have yet to discover how to vortex these sons of bitches out of my universe, I'm unlucky enough to run into them when I least expect it. Example one, running into the mama's boy I dated at CVS when I was on the verge of either puking my guts out or shitting my pants. As I tried to duck down behind a maxi-pad display clutching my economy sized container of Pepto Bismol and every kind of over the counter cough medicine the store had, I prayed that my intestine would cooperate with me just this once and I would never eat a burrito again. At least two women walked by in sweat pants and gave me looks of pity as I crouched there for what felt like hours. Usually I would have thrown a camel toe insult their way but at that moment in time they actually were better than me. I had butt crack sweat for god's sake. You win ladies, you win.
Example number two, running into Chris, the one who'd had his penis in every 18-year old raver in Orange County. I was nursing one of the worst hangovers I had ever had, literally sweating Jager and silently apologizing to my liver for putting her through so much. I had on my dress from the night before and smelled like I had rolled around in smoke, urine and a little bit of ass. I decided to run into a liquor store to buy some water before my brain exploded and my adorable new car turned into a Law & Order crime scene. As I stared blankly at my 20 different water choices (seriously why the fuck are there so many different kinds of bottled water?) I heard a familiar voice coming from directly behind me. The brain cells that I had left screamed at me not to turn around. The ones that were clearly still partying must have been controlling my limbs because I turned around. There he was. That tall, skinny, son of a bitch. Now I probably still could have gotten away at that point but of course I made some weird noise that was a hybrid between a dry heave and a nervous giggle. Eye contact was made and before he could say anything I said "I'm doing great thanks!" in the highest voice that has ever come out of me and bolted out of the store. This is the first time I realized I am a freak. Who tells someone how they are doing without the person asking? I guess I really showed him that I was better off without him. Idiot.
A few months ago I was kind of seeing this guy, PW. PW was hot. Like smokin hot. I generally tend to avoid dating super attractive people because they take too much energy. Also I kind of prefer to be the more attractive one. Then they can worry about me upgrading since clearly I can. Anyway, I had a super big crush on this guy. Did I mention he was hot? Also, because life isn't fair, he was funny and kind of nerdy and had these cute little freckles on his nose. I want to barf just thinking about him. I completely messed up my system. I texted him first and then checked my phone 10 times a day to see if he'd texted me back. Then, instead of waiting an hour to text him back like a smart girl would, I was lucky if I could wait 4 seconds. What a loser right? One night, after a little too much wine and an overdose on doritos, I texted him with the whole "What are we?" question. I'm pretty sure I already mentioned that life isn't fair, but just to reiterate, of course the response I received was "It's not you, it's me". Get a gun.
Since I had clearly given him the power during our short relationship, I was NOT giving him the power when we had our inevitable run in. No fucking way. For the next three weeks I never left the house in less than a god damn prom dress and full hair and make-up. I was the best dressed person walking their dog at 6:00am. Take that you jogging whores in your sweatpants. I kept thinking the run-in would happen and it never did. Then I did the stupidest thing I possibly could and got comfortable. After a 3 hour boozefest at my house a few friends and I decided to head to the bar where I met PW. The sober part of my brain probably knew this was a bad idea, but the drunk part of my brain that approved of my partially slutty outfit was ready to do this.
I get to the bar, I'm feeling good. About an hour in, still no PW sighting. Alright I thought, bring on the shots let's get this shitshow really going. The moment I realize, maybe it's time to switch to beer (water is never an option), I spot him at the bar. We make eye contact. I'm trying to decide what I'm going to say. Should I mention a new fake boyfriend? Start laughing with my friends at a non-existent joke? Lick someone's face? I didn't even need to worry about it because he just turned around and walked away. I should have just realized I dodged a bullet and snuck out the back door. But that would be what a sane person would do. I on the other hand decided to follow him outside and spy on him. Let's fast forward past the seeing him with another girl and taking tequila shots with her and laughing that laugh I really liked a lot. We'll fast forward right to me having a drunk, public mental breakdown outside the bar. Yup, I was THAT girl. The girl that strangers walk by and think "I'm glad that's not me." The girl that a random drunk dude comes up and hugs and says something inspirational like "He's not worth it" while trying to figure out how he can get me blow him. I was every sorority girl's nightmare.
This is when I realized, running into an ex will NEVER go the way we want it to. So next time I'm just going to smile, take a deep breath, and punch that asshole in the face.
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