Dear Facebook, what's my relationship status?

Guys, I forgot how to date. I know it sounds ridiculous, but unless Facebook tells me I’m in a relationship and shows me the picture of who’s supposed to be the only person I let touch my downstairs, I don’t really know what the fuck is going on.

Let me explain. Generally when I’m actually dating someone or god help us all, in a “relationship”, I don’t write about the person. This happens for two reasons.

Reason #1:

No one wants to hear about how my boyfriend and I had a really cozy night in eating burritos, watching Netflix and then falling asleep with our socks on. People who tell me these things are immediately rewarded with a punch in the junk. I don’t give a shit. If you and your boyfriend tried anal for the first time or he told you to use a strap on and violate his colon, that’s the shit I need to know. Which is why if it’s not something I care about, I’m not going to make you guys suffer through it. See look, I care about people, or whatever. And to be perfectly honest my last few relationships have either been hot messes and I couldn’t even tell you what happened last night because spiritually I was dead. Or shit was so boring it would have made me suicidal to read back about how much my life sucked.

Reason #2:

I feel bad writing about people I’m dating. Chances are I’m going to have good intentions and then suddenly that third glass of Merlot is going to kick in and I’ll start raging about how waking up next to him is feeling like a failure every morning and how I hate the way he chews his food and hope he chokes and dies. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but I’m so many other things I’d rather not be a liar too.  I don’t need written proof of my eventual hatred so if persons go missing my ass is munching carpet for the next 15-20 years.

Since my boyfriends are noticeably absent from my blog, the only way I can remember that I have them is because Facebook reminds me. Facebook also reminds other dudes that might want to plow this lawn that there’s an electric fence up and while I’m good, I’m probably not worth getting your testicles shocked up into your asshole. Facebook even reminds you when you started dating and when it’s time to start pulling out the costumes and role play and maybe change up that safe word that stopped working a few months ago. (The safe word is always “Yellow”.)

Thus, my dilemma. I’m kinda hanging out with a dude. We’re at that point where it’s either bang buddy territory or adopting a puppy together territory. Ha, kidding. I would never let some son of a bitch own half of any of my shit. Especially a French bulldog with one eye named Pierre. But real talk. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m not sure if I should stop TFDing (Trolling For Dick for the newbies), or TFD harder, or jump off a cliff, or join a nunnery. Basically I don’t know how casual dating works. If you hang out with someone once or twice a week is that even dating? If we are dating what are the rules? What orifices are off limits?

I’m good at being single. I know how to live this life. I don’t have to return text messages or phone calls in a timely manner. My dog can rub his asshole all over his side of the bed and no one cares. I can take an Ambien and drink a bottle of wine and drool all over myself and people still think I’m nailing it when I show up at the bar the next day ready to make bad decisions. Also if I see a dude at Rite Aid at 9:00 p.m. buying tall cans I can give him the drunk wink that wins them over every time and drink one of his tall cans at his mom’s house and debate giving him a sad HJ in his room decorated with baseball paraphernalia.

My exes would probably have some arguments against this (to them I say ASPERGER’S) but I’d also say I can do relationships. I’ll cook dinner, have enough booze in the house for both of us, I’m up for morning sex always, I’ll refrain from bitching about your pubes in my shower, if you shoot me in the eye I’ll only be mad for 10-15 minutes and I’m too lazy to try to TFD elsewhere if I have a sure deal at home. I’m pretty sure this should be my dating resume. Killin it!

It’s this whole in between situation that ruins my life. Having to worry about someone else’s feelings or feeling like I should care when I don’t hear from them or maybe drive by their house to make sure another Yaris isn’t in their driveway, THIS DRIVES ME FUCKING CRAZY. I’m capable of not giving a shit but then my friends tell me I’m being cold and heartless. But when I give a shit I get all Lisa Left Eye Lopes (RIP) kinda nuts and want to burn people’s mansions down.

My plan is to stop caring about any of this and do what I do best. Booze it up and make attractive dudes uncomfortable at bars. Seriously though, I don’t understand what’s not charming about me hitting on your and your twin and then telling you you look like terrorists and drinking your drink? Does anyone know a website where I can auction myself off as a mail order bride to Russia? Tweet me.   

let me tell you about the time I fucked a whole sorority.

If you bitches were worried about Ebola, gird your loins because there's another epidemic taking over the world and it's worse. Much, much worse. I mean I didn't go to medical school or anything but in my humble opinion, this shit is fucked up.

Before you go on WedMD and start overanalyzing your stool and the color of your urine (which I've recently found out is as easy as yellow urine = good, yellow poop = bad), in this case WedMD ain't gonna help your ass. The affliction I'm referring to is oversharing, also known as diarrhea of your fucking mouth.

I've noticed on the last few dates I've been on the conversation goes straight from, "What do you do?", "Do you have any pets?", to "Are you into anal beads and getting smacked in the face while I call you Mommy?". Umm...sorry what did you just say? I was trying to decide if I was ready to tell you my dog's Christian name and now I know that you're probably going to want me to wash your butt plugs post-coitus. I don't really believe in too soon, but TOO FUCKING SOON BRO.

The first time it happened I just figured this guy was socially retarded and not aware of his limits due to his less than stellar looking face. Or maybe he really was drunk off one beer and meant to say, "What kind of flowers should I send you on your birthday?". But then it continued to happen. If you wanted to know at what age he lost his virginity, what her name was, what she smelled like and every person he's been inside since; I can provide you that information on the last three dudes I've been on dates with. Even worse, they didn't seem to notice that the more they talked the faster I drank and stared around the bar to see if there was someone else I could leave with who seemed too drunk to make conversation. I'm pretty sure they thought they were nailing it.

Call me crazy but I don't need to know the first and last name and current location of every girl you've penetrated. If I asked you for a list of references, then this would seem relevant. Do you want to know about every dude who's put it in me? Maybe. But I'm sure as fuck not going to talk to you about it. I get that I'm not going to be anyone's first and everyone has a past and all of that. Also, please note that being someone's first has never been on my bucket list and I would appreciate you getting as much practice in as possible before coming in my direction. Or on me, whatever. You have a past, cool. People want to have sex with you, even cooler. However the more you talk about everyone you've ever slept with the more I decide I'm closing shop early and start to smell the STD's living inside your scrotum.

I get where the oversharing comes from; that son of a bitch called the internets. I'm guilty also; case in point this lovely blog you can't stop reading. But I feel like it's different when it's happening near your face and the words are coming out of their face. If someone doesn't like what I say on the internet they can ignore it. I can't really turn off a guy's mouth when I hate what's coming out of it. (Dear Science, please work on making this a possibility. I will give you all the HJ's ever.) Pounding it out with someone for the first time is always a little awkward if you're conscious.  I don't need that to be compounded by losing my concentration wondering what Stacey, the girl that was your first 30 second sexual encounter, is up to these days and if she severely fucked you up by pretending you were super good at oral when really you couldn't find the clitoris if it bitch slapped you.  (Dear Stacey, stop lying to dudes and fucking it up for the rest of us. Also I hope you're doing well.)

So future dates, please keep in mind that although I'm fun and open and blunt about everything, I don't need to know about every vagina your dick has lived in for a few moments. (This also includes mouth holes and b holes, thanks.) If something comes up in conversation and it seems necessary to share small details of a past pound, then don't let me squelch your light. However if more than three females are discussed on our date I will stab you. With a broken beer bottle. In the left eyeball. You've been warned.

second dates, Christian names and dad jeans.

Dating sober is the worst thing in the world.

Since I made the responsible decision to get a fake I.D. at 17-years-old so I didn’t have to drink my friend’s parent’s shitty wine or steal PBR from the poor liquor store owners, 90% of my interaction with the opposite sex has involved my sassy sidekick, booze. With her by my side I don’t care if I make a rape joke and no one laughs. I only feel slightly shamed when I have sexual encounters with strangers at my brother’s annual Halloween party every year. Who says no to a dude dressed as Pokey with a dick hole conveniently cut out of the costume? Or the guy that every girl wanted to bone in high school who’s now dressed as Wayne from Wayne’s World wearing the most unfortunate man wig I’ve ever seen? I’m an American. Also, women’s rights and feminism and shit.

I refuse to go anywhere on a date that doesn’t have alcohol. Oh you want to go bowling? Perfect because I can order a pitcher of beer and then down a drink while you’re being cute and purchasing nachos or some other bullshit I don’t care about. There’s a movie you want to see? Awesome, I can put a bottle of wine in my purse and uncork it right when people stop texting and the silence is deafening and then I’m judged. Fuck ya’all, you know you’re just jealous you didn’t bring your bottle too. Also, family in the front, I can see your swag from KFC that smells delicious and would probably go really great with this Sauvignon Blanc. Mind your business. Oh you want to go to a bar? Fantastic. We’ll look weird if we don’t do body shots and sexually harass the server. When in Rome...

I consider a date successful if my date went from a quasi-interesting, semi-employed, 5 on the attractive scale to a super funny, intelligent rocket surgeon, equal in quirky hotness to Benedict Cumberbatch. Trust me, this is entirely possible after 5-7 vodka tonics. Also it’s still a win if I don’t entirely remember his Christian name and only referred to him as “plaid” but am fully aware that he wears dark grey boxer briefs and has either a third nipple or poorly placed mole. I mean what’s a name anyway? Fuck the government.

Nonetheless, since I had recently acquired the nickname of “One date wonder” (fuck you Erick) I thought I must be doing this whole dating thing incorrectly. I mean I don’t want to waste my time or anyone else’s, but I do think sometimes I, and the dudes I meet, make a terrible first impression so a second date is kind of necessary to decide if we want to pass out near each other at some point in the future. I decided that unless a date is TERRIBLE (I’m referring to you, dude that made me hear about everyone he’s ever penetrated in his entire life) I’m willing to take my Ativan and give it one more try.

So last week I met a dude for a drink after work. I’m not sure why he even wanted to meet up with me after I couldn’t maintain sobriety long enough to make solid plans for a few weeks. Those mother fucking two day hangovers that start the day you turn 27 are ruining my life. But finally plans were made, I had no excuse not to go since the bar was literally 5 minutes from my work and my BAC was so low I would die soon if I didn’t take my medicine (vodka). I’m not going to lie, this whole dating shit was really bringing me down. I figured at the very least I could drink heavily and then go die on someone’s couch and buy new clothes for work at Target in the morning. I’m a planner.

I get to the bar and am pleasantly surprised that this guy was attractive. Also he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt with stupid shit that’s supposed to be funny written on it or dad jeans or flip flops or a polo. All wins for me because these fashion choices by dudes ruin my life. If I can put on a dress and wear knee high boots and get hair ripped off my labia, you can sure as shit put on real shoes. Feminism.

The initial disappointment that he wasn’t a sassy, older black woman catfishing me waned and I was becoming slightly less pessimistic. I ordered my vodka tonic and switched on the charm.

For some reason I end up on dates or dating either the male version of Lindsay Lohan, or someone who doesn’t really drink at all. There is not a male version of drunk me. My friend recently described my new party style as this: “You rage super hard for 2-3 hours and you kill it. Then you just die. You’re a corpse and you never resurrect.” It must be the Norwegian in me. If someone has described you in these exact words and you are 68% employed and own a vehicle, email me. I need to know about you.

Back to my date. So after my first drink I noticed my date was no longer drinking. Dilemma. Is he waiting it out to see how drunk I’ll get to decide how DTF I am? Is he super over this situation and being polite so he can bail when I’m done with my drink? Is it 1:45 already? Am I DTF? So many fucking questions. This is why I am a complete spaz. This is the commentary in my brain constantly. Now you know about it and maybe you’ll understand why I’m making weird faces a lot and squirming uncomfortably. So I did something weird. I ordered a beer and drank it slowly. I KNOW. MIND EXPLOSION. Was that the sound of the world ending? I hope Emma Watson runs in here swinging an ax at me and being all cute and British. (If you don’t get what movie I’m referencing I’m disappointed in you) But seriously, I remembered everything and was able to repeat pertinent information back to my friends. I, just, can’t.

Turns out, I can be somewhat acceptable on a first date sober. Second date? No fucking way. On the second date I had one beer. ONE BEER. I need you to read that out loud. Take it all in, like a shiv shoved up your ass in prison. Feels uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, right? Too far? I don’t give a shit. I basically developed Asperger’s. I no longer understood social cues like I just talked about something it’s your turn now. I had to give my undivided attention to every single dog or person that walked by. I knew I was being a nightmare but I couldn’t fix it. The more I tried to not be a freak of nature, the more awkward I was. You might think I’m exaggerating but when the dude went inside for a minute one of the servers came up to me and gave me pity face and asked if I was okay and said at least twice, “Can I get you a drink? You look like you need a drink.” Yo, Judge Judy, back the fuck up! My awkwardness was palpable.

On my drive home I immediately called my friend to tell her that I was an insane person and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Her take is that when you’re sober dating you have to actually decide how you feel about the person sitting across from you. Feelings? Fuck that. I hate those things. But she’s right. You don’t have the booze barrier to make them more interesting or provide an iron curtain so no one has any emotions. It’s real life. (Dear drunk life, I miss you. Even when you pushed me down the stairs and told me I was unlovable. I know you were only trying to make me a stronger person. Call me.) Usually I just sit back and let the dude decide. If he’s into it and he’s persistent I’ll go along with it. If he’s not I’ll accept it and move on.

Now that I actually have to be an adult and decide what I want it’s foreign. I actually don’t even know what qualities I want in a person. Is that sad? Don’t answer that because I know it is. This is not a break up letter to booze. I will never give up on her. I’m just not going to expect her to make all my decisions and save me from growing up. I will definitely keep her around for those last minute decisions where I know what I want to do but need a little nudge in the wrong (but so right) direction. I also still plan on continuing my 2-3 hour rages and then death on the weekends. But I’m going to try to figure out what/who/why/how the fuck I’m doing with my life.

Note: If this does not work out you can find me at The Federal Bar in downtown Long Beach spilling drinks on the floor and trying to clean it up because they really hate when you do that. Cheers bitches.  

dry spell...day 1,547.

This was going to be a full on dude bash blog. I was going to get super hostile and write about how men are awful while vowing to retire from pussy waxes and shaving my legs and exfoliating. But instead, I'm going to say thank you. From now on when a dude doesn't call, I'm going to consider it a bullet dodged. This is why.

I'll go back to my 10 years older vegan boyfriend. I thought this guy was the coolest. I wanted to huff this guy like a computer cleaning spray can and for the most part lick his skin off his body. In layman's terms, I was obsessed with him. When I realized he was sexting Suicide Girls while I was sleeping I had to maintain the little pride I had left and ditch his hairless body. Seriously, this guy had absolutely no body hair. That should have been my first warning that shit was weird. Anyway, I walked out at 2 am, full on ugly crying and debating driving my car into the closed down gas station on the corner. A few years later I find out that he has continued to fuck everything that breathes and was still fucking 18 year olds in his late 30's. So instead of feeling bad about it, I decided to be grateful that I escaped before I contracted gonorrhea, syphilis, crabs, HPV, HIV and the crowning glory AIDS. We all know 18 year olds are iffy on the whole condom thing. And his hairless body might have confused them that he was 11 years old and it was his first time. Either way, I'd like to thank vegan dude for being dumb enough to leave his phone out so I could see his poor attempts at broaching the topic of fisting. Keepin it classy, with tofu.

Then there was the smoking hot 22 year old with the heroin addiction. Now let's be real, I was pretty impressed with myself for being the older lady tagging this hot almost jailbait. I mean it was rough trying to be cute at 3 am when I'd been up since 5:30 am and worked all day. Also a few times I was pretty certain I'd dislocated one, or both, hips trying to keep up with the shenanigans those 21 year old whores are up to these days. However the impressed looks on my neighbors faces when they saw who was causing all the commotion in my kitchen, living room, balcony, well you get the point, was so worth the muscle relaxer addiction I may have dabbled in. So was I bummed when jailbait started flaking and expected me to be fun at 5 am after ignoring me for days? For sure. Was I relieved that I started banging someone else and ignored his calls when I saw him at a bar weeks later and realized the little heroin addiction he might have mentioned once or twice had turned him into a shady ass, unattractive, unpleasant tweaker? Yes. I was probably a week away from that motherfucker stealing all the shit in my apartment and cutting out my insides to sell on the black market so he could stick it in his arm. Also I was running out of meds and my hips were just recovering. Thank you heroin for the assist.

Next up was my emotionally damaged hot mess boyfriend. I'm pretty sure Taylor Swift wrote the song "Trouble" about this dude. Fuck John Mayer, he's an amateur. Sometimes you think you want to be Courtney Love and Kurt Kobain, then you realize you're actually just Courtney Love with Kurt Kobain's corpse. Too soon? I don't give a fuck. When this shitshow didn't work out, weird right?, I was a nightmare. Having to try to be charming while blacked out was super hard and I'd lost my ability to do it. Turns out not all dudes are amused by girls that get super drunk, take off their pants and run down the street bouncing off cars. This is tragic because I was awesome! Anyway, I felt like a relationship failure until I realized that in this case it really wasn't me, it was him. I wasn't a shitty girlfriend, I just picked the wrong dude. In hindsight I've realized that no one will be able to fix that storage unit of baggage and trying to would have killed my spirit completely. So thank you to the white Oprah dude at Alex's Bar that gave me a pep talk when I ugly cried in the alley and told me I could do better because he was also a hot mess and knew it would never get better and I couldn't have fixed it. And I'm sorry dude that you can never actually be Oprah because she wouldn't have that and would murder you.

This brings us to my fun killer last boyfriend. This was the guy that your friends convince you to date because you never give "the nice guy" a chance. Let me clear something up while getting in a little of the bashing that I've been tempted to do. THERE ARE NO NICE GUYS. The nice guys are the ones that berate you for getting super drunk on St. Patrick's Day and climbing on their roommates pool table because you are celebrating your people. The nice guys make you hang out with their ex-girlfriends and convince you you're insane for being pissed about it. The nice guys stay up until 3 am playing video games and then sleep until 2 pm the next day resulting in you missing brunch. NO ONE PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER AND MAKES HER MISS BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS!!!!!! When I eventually got tired of dating someone's father and then the nice guy immediately started dating his ex-girlfriend, yeah I wasn't happy about it. However, when I recently learned that the skank was knocked up I literally did a victory fist pump and cheersed myself with a bottle of wine. If I'm going to get knocked up by someone it's going to be a biker outlaw. Not a video game playing nerd. So thank you skank for letting my ex-boyfriend impregnate you. In this case, I'd say I dodged a fucking Kamikaze plane.

Last week I went on a  date with a dude that I'd been talking to for a while. He seemed funny and his BAC was always fucked like mine so I figured if anything I'd have someone to take off my pants in public with. We went out and I thought we had a good time. Then, nothing. I was mad about it for about 10 seconds then I realized, I probably dodged another bullet. This guy was probably a baby rapist. Or a closeted vegan. Or nice. So many horrific scenarios. So instead of wishing him dead, I'd like to thank him for not calling me. I mean he probably wouldn't have had fun doing it in the parking garage on our next date anyway. That sounds like an awful time.

To be honest I don't need someone to put a ring on it. Seriously. But if one of you assholes can at least fake it until the third date so I can get laid that would be fantastic. And if you're wondering why I say the third date, that's because Cosmopolitan magazine, aka the whore's bible, says you have to wait three dates. If I'm at least following the whore's guide to life then I can still make my parents proud.

hello, I am a life-ruiner with a huge awesome ass. nice to meet you.

I had a good day today. Actually, since I was released from prison early on Friday I've been having a really fucking good couple of days. I mean there have been a few things happening that aren't great...but in the scheme of things I didn't hate my life for a hot minute. Oh don't worry ya'all, this isn't about to get all positive and warm and fuzzy. We're not going to have an Oprah moment and hold hands and thank some dude named Jesus for all of the great things in our lives. Reality donkey punched me. And then anally fucked me with no warning, and definitely used no lube. Not even a little spit on the hand. Let's start from the beginning.

I jumped back into dating almost immediately after my last break-up. It seemed like a good idea at the time since I'd been over the dude for a month or more and judge me if you want but I'm at my best when I'm being consistently penetrated. I don't require love, just a heavy rotation of naked wrestling. The kind of wrestling where I really don't have to do a lot if I don't want. That's my jam.

Anyway, I met a dude and we started hanging out. He was funny, attentive, family-oriented and we liked the same music, art, both had some style and all of that. I don't know why it happens but I usually end up dating people I have nothing in common with besides drinking or having genitalia that fit together. It was cool to hang out with someone that played music I was super into and had style that I could appreciate. But after a few weeks I had to admit that I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to be someone's date to their family member's wedding and meet the parents and help babysit the nephews and nieces and double-date with the best friend and his girlfriend of 5 years. I didn't have it in me to try to impress anyone and be someone's everything or even something. Yeah, I get it, I'm a fucking asshole. So I told dude I wasn't into it, I was sorry, he was great and he'll find someone else blah blah mother fucking blah.

He tried to convince me I was wrong and did what we always wish a guy would do and kept texting me and calling me and trying to remind me that he was still there and into me. I ignored all of his attempts and eventually even deleted his number and blocked him so I wouldn't have a drunken moment of weakness and show up at his house pretending I just really needed to pee and then let him put it in my ear because that doesn't count. After months, he finally gave up. The power of the pussy is real folks. No fucking joke.

I guess I didn't think he would ever think about me again. Apparently he does. Or he drank a lot of whiskey and aimed all of his anger at the bitch that wouldn't love him. I got a text from him tonight saying the following:

"i still think about you and i fucking hate you because your not even that great and you only brought the cheap whiskey over and you had to leave early because you work stupid times and the only good thing about you was your ass and i hope all the fucks you meet leave you because thats what you want to happen"

The grammar is atrocious. Seriously. Siri must hate you because she ALWAYS makes sure my "I"s are capitalized.

But real talk, what the fuck do you even say to something like this? The fact that it came from a different number and I still knew exactly who it was, was like being punched in the cervix. I'm honestly not out here trying to ruin people's lives. I've had my heart stomped on to where I thought I was going to die and there was no way my body could survive without any of my internal organs working. Obviously, since corpses aren't as witty as I am, I survived. And I've never felt the need to unleash on someone months later. Yeah I might bash my exes a little in my blogs, but I consider them more like meningitis that could have killed me but I survived it and I even still have enough liver usage to continue my heavy drinking. No permanent damage here!

I guess it makes me realize that people pleasing doesn't get you anywhere. If I had been completely honest with myself I would have never hung out with someone I knew was looking to wife up when I was only looking for someone to distract me from the things I hated in my life. And maybe I should stop assuming that I'm forgettable and people won't even notice if I phantom and disappear. I haven't gone B. Spears circa umbrella vs. van crazy and assume that everyone loves me and wants to put a ring on it. But I guess I need to use my vagina instead of my heart and let people know when I'm not feeling it. Or restraining orders, that could be a good tactic too.

Now I'm going to drink a box of wine and try to think of something to say to this kid so he doesn't hate women forever and anger bang some hookers outside of a Denny's at 6 a.m.

Anger bangs happen between 12 p.m. and 2 a.m. Get it together people.

a face a mother doesn't even love.

You'll be very happy to hear that yesterday I had the worst date ever. I should've just given up when I was not that far behind and married the date rapist. But no, because I am a fucking masochist.

So I sent this bearded, Viking looking creature a message on okcupid about a month ago. The message only mocked his dislike of Mexican food and unkempt face bush. It should have been a red flag that he thought my insults were charming and admitted he was excited that I had messaged him. Clearly he didn't read my profile thoroughly enough to identify the daddy issues that require men to withhold all of their emotions so I lose my fucking mind trying to make them love me. What an amateur.

Anyway, after hours of text harassing that I found somewhat entertaining, I thought what the hell and asked him if he wanted to hang out. Plans were made to go to a little brewery so even if we hated each other at least I could shove my feelings into a pitcher of delicious craft beer. Below are exact quotes from this dude and my reactions. I hope you have booze and snacks y'all because shit is about to get REAL!

1. "I hate my mother."

 In my head I heard, "I hate my mother so I'll eventually hate you when you're old and remind me of her." I get not everyone loves their parents. But maybe reveal your Menendez brother fantasies when I'm on beer three. Maybe even beer 7 so I won't remember a word you said and therefore cannot testify against your psycho ass in court.

2. "Here is a picture of the last girl I took on a date. I think she's a lesbian."

Who the fuck does that!? I don't need to know that I'm way more attractive than the last girl you tried to penetrate. I already knew I was. And now you just forced me to pretend that I'm not disgusted by this face you shoved in my face. Sunday is not my day for pretend. Give me a fucking break. Also yes, she is a lesbian.

3. "My sister is a bitch.  I live with her."

Cool. That rules out boning at your house because I don't need your sister judging me and trying to blame pubes in the tub on me because bitch I don't have those! (Thanks Raj!)

4. "My best friend is obsessed with me and tries to fuck me all the time. Look at all the texts she's sending me right now."

It was at this point that I just chugged my beer and hoped my heart would explode. I don't even want to fuck the Viking but suddenly, because this skank is all up in my business, I feel like I should pee on the dude or something. If some dude is obsessed with me and trying to penetrate me constantly, I'm tired. I'm locking that shit down and doing yoga pants and beers in bed. WHY ARE YOU HERE!?!

5. "I've turned down sex from a lot of drunk girls."

Then proceeded to tell me about each and every one of them while I tried not to barf in my beer. Drunk girls trying to get laid, those are my people. How dare you mock them. Also I have a hard time buying this, show me the fucking receipts.

6. "I'm already drunk."

After 1.5 beers. There are no words.

7. "I always bubble wrap so I don't get AIDS."

AIDS might not get you but a Yaris driven by a crazy blonde bitch might run right through your god damn bubble wrap.

8. "Gay men want to fuck me. They like my eyebrows."

Apparently I was on a date with the guy everyone wants to get plowed by. Good to know.

9. "I don't play video games. I play board games. All the time."

Oh, well that's way better! Get me a fucking gun.

And then the final gem that really got my downstairs damp...

10. "I dated a married woman for four years. It really fucked me up."

So now we're both rolling up with a uhaul full of mommy, daddy, drunk girls, married women issues? Aw hell no. There's only room for one disaster in a relationship and that title remains mine. ALWAYS.

Moral of the story is, shut the fuck up. No one wants to hear everything about you on a first date. You talked your way right out of a parking lot HJ. Congrats and give your penis my condolences.

But guess who reactivated their okcupid account? Let the next shitshow begin!

is that my biological clock ticking or my liver screaming?

Let's be completely honest here. Being almost thirty fucking sucks. Thirty is mocking me like Regina George telling me she likes my bracelet and I really just want to punch her in the vagina.

What's mind fucking me is that ten years ago, when I imagined being thirty, I thought my life would be awesome. Like Justin Beiber getting shipwrecked on an island full of horny monkeys kind of awesome. Instead, it's not. My life is typical and normal. And that makes me want to take a Whitney Houston bath.

The worst part is the desperation I feel. I'm so desperate for a job that I don't hate that I sit at work and fantasize about sticking my hand down the garbage disposal at work and then making those cunts pay for me to go back to school to learn a trade that only requires one hand. But the jokes on them because of course I'd pocket the money and go into fetish porn. I'm almost thirty, not a moron.

Also dating has seriously caused me to up my meds. It seems irresponsible to troll on the 25 year olds with hopes and dreams because I left mine at a bar somewhere in 2008 and no one bothered to return them. But the 40 somethings wanting someone to procreate with or at the very least adopt a puppy with aren't going to appreciate pulling me out of a gutter at 6:30 pm on a Sunday. Also that ain't puppy vomit in your bed...my bad.

The worst part is that I feel like I have to try. Actually brush my hair and wear my bra that nails it and get the cat and dog hair off my clothes before I meet disappointment number 87. Also in the middle of writing this I discovered a water bug in the bathroom, completely list my shit, sprayed Raid everywhere and screamed until my roommate disposed of the body. Proof that I am completely undateable. But I digress.

So now that I've accepted I have to put some effort into it, I've also discovered that I am an acquired taste. It's been rough to accept but I am not everyone's jam. My first huge bitch slap of reality came on a date with singularly the most attractive male I've ever shared a close space with. He works on a boat, has sailor tattoos, drives a Harley he custom built, and did not want to penetrate me. That mother fucker. His disinterest was infuriating and also made me want to super ugly cry in front of strangers so everyone felt as bad as I did. But because I'm classy, I pretended I didn't give a shit and flirted with a guy at the bar who smelled like milk. WINNING.

It's also weird when I'm not into the date but Mr. Enthusiastic has already named the golden retriever Dave and is trying to hold my hand under the table. Jesus take the wheel and drive this god damn thing off a cliff. The 25 year old me would've laughed and walked out. But now I get all weird and try to give people a chance and kumbayah and all of that bullshit.

The truth is I'm a hot mess. I have a horrible temper, I say whatever pops into my head, I'm withholding but I need a lot of attention and I don't trust anyone. But once you get past all that, you should probably know that I make some life changing chicken and shrimp tacos, I know how to pour a beer correctly and open a bottle of wine while walking , and I like to solve arguments while naked.

Tell all your friends.