Your competition is a 20 pound terrier mix. Good luck to you.

The long-running joke about singledom is that if you want to die alone and a virgin (at least vaginally) get a half-dozen cats. Maybe start hoarding some items on your body also, like moles and weird growths that Web.MD can't identify. I say if you want to die alone, albeit after many men have seen your lady parts, adopt an obsessive dog.

I'll say it, my dog has ruined me as far as relationships go. No living dude can ever compete with the following characteristics he posses and that I've become accustomed to during our 16 year (yeah that's right mother fuckers I've kept this creature alive for 16 years, I'm a boss) relationship:

1. Complete devotion. 

Even if I walk outside for 5 seconds to throw out an empty wine bottle or get a closer look at the neighbor's friends to see if they're underage or not, when I walk inside my dog acts like he hasn't seen me for 35 years. I mean I get the full body shaking, at any moment he can piss and/or shit himself, and he throws his body into my knee caps until I acknowledge his existence. I don't even have to touch him or give three shits that he's assaulting my lower body, he just wants to know that I know that he's fucking stoked to see me. 

He'll also follow me from room to room all day. He's an old son of a bitch but be damned his arthritic hips and failing eyesight, where I go he goes. I mean true devotion is when you're reading your Kindle in the bathroom for 45 minutes and when you walk out little man is lying on the floor directly outside the door to escort you to your next location. 

I mean the odds that I can find a dude that will attack my body and lick my face obsessively the minute I get  home from work everyday and lay on the floor outside the bathroom door while I'm having an exorcism seem pretty slim. There truly is no modern romance. 

2. Morning breath? So about it. 

I'm pretty sure my dog loves me more when I'm at my most unattractive. When I put on a pretty dress, shave my legs and throw on some hooker heels he's really not too impressed. He can't be bothered if those hooker shoes could end his life if I pre-party too much and stumble on his unsuspecting body. But when I wake up so hungover that I think I might die, with a little vomit in my hair and morning breath that could wipe out a poverty-striken village he wants his mouth on my face. Literally tongue in my mouth. I wake up to him staring at me adoringly and there's no way he's trying to avoid a morning cuddle session. There's no dude in the world who wants to touch this after a night of belligerent debauchery that ends with a back alley puke session. 

3. We don't have to talk about it. 

Obviously in relationships you have to have those "check-in" conversations every so often. Usually they involve yelling or tears, or my favorite when there are both of those things. Clearly I am always involved in extremely healthy relationships. If I yell or cry my dog doesn't need a rational explanation for why I am very obviously losing my shit. All he wants to do is sit in my lap and lick my face until it's all better. Find me the dude that doesn't ask me to explain why I fly off the  handle every so often and I will put a ring on it immediately.

4. Judge Judy, non-aggressively.

When I drink too much my dog judges me. There is a photographic evidence of his judgement.  Christmas Eve circa 2010 I decided to polish off several half-full bottles of booze, take off my pants in front of my entire family, try to bone someone's friend that made the mistake of crashing our holiday festivities and then passed out in the guest room with a full drool stain happening. The next day I woke up to a picture texted to me of my dog standing over my corpse with the most disappointed look I've ever seen on a creature's face. If a boyfriend had looked at me like that I would have told him to go fuck himself and let me live my life. Most likely screaming YOLO in his face and then cup checking his best friend on my way out. But I felt actual shame that I had disappointed this thing that loved me so much.

Let's be real, the less I drink the less likely I am to make a poor decision and text that dude with the porn stache that I met at the bar a few weeks back. Which means it's more likely I will die alone. By this point there is no way you can deny my theory. Unless you hate evidence and hard cold facts. Which probably means you would make an awesome jury member.

I love my dog, don't get me wrong. I mean I'm just as obsessed with him as he is with me. But I think after he's no longer my number one boo I should probably adopt 6 more cats. I feel like a cat is the perfect animal to set you up for being in a relationship. He'll ignore me, refuse to touch me when I look unattractive and turn around and bite the shit out of just when I think we're bonding. Animal hoarders, here I mother fucking come. Set your TIVO bitches. 

whatever, send me a dick pic.

You may remember how circa 2011 I created an okcupid account? If you don't fuck you, go back and learn a book. If you do, you're clearly winning at life, you'll also remember that it scared the shit out of me. It got to the point where I actually put tape over my webcam, even though I'm not even sure how to turn the fucker on, because I was pretty sure longdongiwish69 was watching me while he message bombed me telling me he thought we were soulmates. He probably would have gotten further with me if he'd just point blank said "I want to meet you in a dark alley and sexually assault you behind an abandoned rape van". I always give points for honesty. After the third message letting me know that stalker dude was trolling a nearby Long Beach bar just to see if I might go there I decided to ditch the profile. Fortunately I was soon pounding it out with my neighbor so I really didn't need to TFD online anymore.

All of this is just to premise my announcement that I'M BACK BITCHES!! I resurrected my okcupid account and I'm not sorry about it. If anything it will fulfill my need for attention and allow extremely unattractive or socially inept men to tell me that I'm beautiful and (fingers crossed) masterbate to my pictures. Don't judge me. You donate money to the homeless I let unfortunate men beat off to my pictures; let's just call it a draw and say we're both humanitarians.

I'm not assuming I'm going to find my next ex-boyfriend on there. But I do have to say the best part is the sexually explicit messages that entertain me for minutes. Exhibit A:

I would love to tie you down to the bed and rip your clothes off with my teeth. Licking every inch of your body till underneath your ass is a puddle of your sweet pussy juice. I would lick up every drop as I untie your arms and bend you over as I spank your ass a nice cherry red. While your pussy is still dripping I would slide my fingers into you as slow and as deep as I can till I find yourng spot and massage it nice and hard. Making you scream as you come closer and closer to squirting. And when you can't 
take any more I would pull my dick out and fuck you as hard as I can pulling out just as you squirt so I can catch every last drop in my mouth.

Alright, let's analyze this bitch. First of all, if your name on a dating website is "nerdywhiteboy69" you are never getting laid. Not even by a chick with a beard and 3 foot long labia. She's busy. Also, what the fuck is a "yourng" spot? I don't know if I have one of those but now I feel like I need to call my doctor and find out. Having the urge to call your doctor after reading a sexually explicit message is not sexy. You lose. But thanks for hoping I might take your virginity. 

I also find it intriguing what kind of information people put on their profiles. Honestly my vagina shuts down the second I see the following words: "foodie", "introvert", "romantic", and "sensitive". Guess what? I. don't. give. a fuck. Oh you're a foodie? Great, you like food. Everyone likes fucking food you asshole. Well except Mary Kate and Demi Lovato after she gets dumped. But that's neither here nor there. Also "sensitive" means you're a little bitch and "romantic" means you're going to want to play some John Mayer bullshit and tell me how pretty I am when I just want you to put your mouth elsewhere and turn on some B. Spears. 

I'm wondering if I should put on my profile that my vagina doctor told me I had a great looking cervix. Is that what dudes are looking for? I guess it probably puts me a notch above someone with a scary looking cervix or that previously mentioned chick with the beard and crazy long labia. Alright, it's going on there. I should probably also put that I won't do anal until there's a ring on my finger. Just to prevent any nerdy white dudes from getting their hopes up. We all know you twatbuckets can't afford an engagement ring. 

Turns out that my best matches are large black men. Is it because I'm sassy? I once had a friend tell me that the first time she met me she assumed I had a large black boyfriend. She was shocked and appalled when my skinny little white boyfriend walked in. Looking back I kind of wish I had been dating a large black man. He probably would have paid for at least half of most things. It has to be because I'm sassy. I mean the okcupid people don't know I have a pretty awesome ass. Or maybe they do. Son of a bitch, I'm putting that fucking tape back up. 

if you can get me out of the gutter you can get it in.

I hate dating. I hate dating more than I hate cancer, teen pregnancy (which actually if there had been a "16 And Pregnant" show when I was 16 I would've been ALL over that), animal abuse and the lack of new Intervention episodes. If they made a bumper sticker that said "Fuck Dating" I'd probably have one. Unfortunately unless I want to die alone with 18 cats, dating is inevitable.

Basically the idea is that you're supposed to be on your best behavior on a first date. You want to seem like a put-together, classy, bring me home to meet mom and she'll love me kind of girl. Well I've decided FUCK THAT. Clearly squelching my inner trainwreck has gotten me nowhere. I haven't found the Kurt Cobain to my Courtney Love because my Kurt has been more like Hugh Hefner without Viagra....BORING and sad. Sad like when you drop half a pizza on the ground and you know you can't pick it up and eat it because a homeless person probably shit in that very spot. I'm not saying I want the male version of Amanda Bynes, though I do want to live inside her body and hear those fucked up voices in her head, but I do want someone who can appreciate a girl that can vomit after taking a whiskey shot and still go back to the bar to finish her vodka tonic. Never leave a soldier behind. Especially when that soldier is vodka. Because I want to find a partner that can outlast my 6 month curse, I plan on being my absolute worst, hot mess self to see how much they can handle immediately. If you can't handle it, try match.com. The boring people can follow their dating rules and I'll follow mine.

1. Show up "hangry".

When I'm hungry it's pretty similar to those Snickers commercials. Except I turn into a god damn velociraptor and I will rip your fucking head off and eat your insides. This is something future partner in pounding should know. That way they'll be smart enough to present me with a breakfast burrito in bed so I don't slit their throat for snoring in my face all night. And bacon, don't ever forget the bacon.

2. There is no sugarcoating, it's brutal honesty all the way.

If you ask me "why are you single?" you better make sure you just ordered a fresh drink because I'm going to tell you everything. I'm going to tell you all about my Daddy issues, my abandonment issues, my unprompted jealous rages, my unmanageable insecurities, the way I hate when people eat loudly; to put it bluntly, all the Amanda Bynes and Lindsey Lohan issues rolled into one. I'd rather just put it all out there so when I'm crying in a gutter with a 40 you'll know it's probably just because my dad never loved me and someone told me I suck at blow jobs once. Just tell me I'm pretty, put a straw in my bottle and hold my hand when you drag me home.

3. Look at me. No seriously, you better fucking look at me.

In the past I've pretended that I don't really need that much attention and I'm one of those cool girlfriends that has their own life and they're too busy to answer their phone or whatever. I do have my own life, BUT I'm still going to need you to text me obsessively and post pictures of puppies on my Facebook wall with a link to where you can buy them for me. I don't care if this sounds crazy. Crazy people make awesome girlfriends. Look how happy all the husbands on the Real Housewives show look. The ones that aren't dead I mean. My future boo needs to know that I require his undivided attention like a jealous girlfriend who's best friend you drunkenly fisted and your brother played the youporn video at Thanksgiving dinner. Yup, it's like that. I'm always busy. But I'm still gonna need those texts messages.

4. I'm not paying. Fuck feminism.

I have weird pride issues when it comes to money. I'm pretty sure it's because my mom has always worn the pants and she'll cut you if you try to pay for anything when she's around. But I've learned the hard way that throwing down the wallet too early can create either a sugar momma situation or the dude  decides he wants to keep his balls intact and stops reaching for the check every time. I don't mind footing the bill, but I also really enjoy buying slutty shoes (note: this also benefits you) and I can't do that if my credit card is full of korean BBQ and dive bar charges. Also I don't want to have an awkward moment every time the check comes. So to make things easier, I'm not paying for anything. And I'm getting a double, every time. Problem solved.

5. I will be as offensive as possible. No one is safe.

I can pretty positively say that I have not gone one day without offending someone since the mid-90's. I guess that's why people either love me or hate me. If you have a weak stomach and morals get the fuck out. Ain't nobody got time for feelings. To make sure baby daddy can handle it the following conversation topics will be broached on the first date:

a) Terri Schaivo. I will refer to anyone that displeases me as "Terri" or "Schaivo" or "T Shy", whatever. If you look horrified, "Check please. Oh no, slide that right over to boring dude, thanks."

b) Abortion/kicking babies/maiming children. I might say something like, "Is that a wire hanger in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" Or I might tell you that I'm in a bad mood and want to kick the cute little baby in the booth next to us. If you get a tear in your eye and gush about how much you love your nieces and nephews I will fuck the weird guy at the bar. Right in front of you. Put it on youtube. I'm willing to take one for the team, literally, so you can stop being bland.

Also I will curse constantly and not be sorry about it. I'd rather just get it all out there so you aren't mind fucked when I have a bout of road rage and call the old lady in the Pontiac a dried up old cunt bag with nasty wrinkled labia. If you can't handle it, leave me with my drink and the dude with Tourette's. We'll be just fine.

6. You will hear all about my exes and why I will never meet any of yours.

The only way to understand why I take no shit and give no fucks is if you hear of my tragic dating history. If you read my blog, we can totally skip this part and go right to foreplay. Also I plan on making it very clear that if you bring any of your ex-girlfriends around me, I don't give a fuck if it was your kindergarten girlfriend and she hasn't shaved her peesh in three years, I will kill her and you. Taking the high road? FUCK THAT. I prefer to wallow in the gutters. I can guarantee that you will never meet any of my exes. Mainly because they're all dead. I mean, missing. Allegedly.

Bottom line is the only people I keep around are the ones that have experienced me at my absolute worst. They have pictures of me barfing in bar parking lots. Or running pantless down the street. Or throwing Obama signs at parked cars. Or kicking a naked dude out of my apartment at 3 a.m. Or ugly crying because another stupid boy metaphorically stomped on my chest. These are my people and I love them. If they can appreciate me at my trainwreckiest, then so should any dude I let penetrate me.

you're disgusting...tell me I'm pretty.

I'm back biiiiiiiitches! I know you've missed my foul mouth, promiscuous ways and ability to make you feel weird things in your tummy and your crotch at the exact same time.

Clearly I'm single again. Life just isn't as interesting and worth writing about when I'm coupled up. Sad right? But I'm going to say that's more a reflection on the dude than me. I stay awesome. Always. I just think it's weird to blog about a penis that's entering me on a frequent basis. Don't worry though, no one's safe when it comes to these things.

One of my favorite things about breaking up with someone is when everyone starts finding out and people choose sides. For most people this process is probably fucking terrible and they cry and feel sick and watch their Facebook friend numbers dwindle and contemplate taking a Whitney Houston-style bath. I, on the other hand, revel in this uncomfortable process. Obviously the people who were my friends first pick me. Mainly because they are smart and like hanging out with someone that could strip down or run into a tree at any moment. His friends pick him because they're too scared to admit that they like me better. It's the people that met us when we were together that have the dilemma. They don't realize it but I am watching them like a mother fucking hawk. I notice every Facebook status they like and count the numbers. Today, I got three. He got one. That's another win for me you poor bastard! I can't even describe the immense amount of pleasure when the "You were always the fun one" and "I like you better single" and "I never got to put it in you and I'd like to now" texts start rolling in. This is my drug. If I could snort them or inject them, I would. And I would refuse the help and NEVER go to rehab. Ultimately I'm not losing anything. I keep what I already had. But, when I gain a new drinking buddy who CHOSE my side, weren't forced into it, that's gold people. Pure fucking gold. Or some crack, whatever does it for you.

Another thing that makes me not hate everything in the world is the "new girl at school" period that lasts for about a week or two after you become single again. Suddenly you are more popular and interesting than a girl with three tits and the ability to piss a fabulous pale ale on command. All of a sudden the dude you tried to make out with for three years at the dive bar who developed a spidey sense and exited the bar through the back the second you walked in the front maybe wants to make out. He might even want to buy you a burrito at the taqueria and pay the tip, just the tip, on the margarita at the bar afterwards. And then that other dude that would ignore your drunken texts asking him if you could rub your face on his facial hair because it looks super soft starts to like the idea. Now there's nothing else in the world he'd rather do than rub his facial hair on your face. With or without your shirt and pants on. Though let's be real, clearly pants off. Totally. Even better is the nice guy that trolled you for 5 years, gave up right when you decided that maybe you were ready for the nice guy and showed you pictures of his new girlfriend who is almost as cute as you and obviously 100% nicer and less shallow. Of course now he's single and decides that he wants to put a ring on it and have all of your babies. Like a male seahorse. Which if it was possible I'd be all kinds of down with. I plan on reveling in all of this because in a week it'll be over. They'll realize that I'm planning on going back to crossing items off my "Pound Bucket List" and I won't be ready for just one penis in my life for a good while. I wish I could huff the attention and then store some of the remnants in a jar and take a little bit when needed. Oh well. I'll take the random feel-up from the drunk guy at O'Connells and call it a win.

I've also decided that I'm not going to apologize for reveling in any kind of attention I get from the male species, even if it's gross. Just because I wouldn't let you penetrate me doesn't mean I don't want your undivided attention and adoration. I actually like it more because I don't have to give you any type of response. I've let weird old dudes cop a feel. I feel like it's harmless because we all know their penis no longer works. It's like a sad hose with a crink in it so water doesn't come through anymore. Let the guy enjoy his last days a little. He'll probably be dead within the year. Also, there was a girl with much bigger boobs a few stools down from me and he didn't molest her. Another win for me. The 19-year-old kid bagging my wine at the grocery store? I'm not going to touch your penis. But am I going to act all coy and wink when you hit on me? Hell yes I am. And then I'm going to avoid going to that store for the next month so you don't actually try to ask me on a date. If you still live with mom, ain't nobody got time for that. We can't pound at my house because my roommates birthed me. Double standard I know, but I give zero fucks. I prefer to be admired at a distance by the under aged and unemployed.

Basically I am going to take maximum pleasure in every trolling for dick text message I get for the next few weeks. I won't even be offended if a dick pic or two come rolling in. I'm always interested in what's going on down there.

Also if you've decided to pick my side you made the right choice. If you weren't sure then read the rest of my blogs. Enough said.

till death do us part. or at least until your penis stops working.

People who enjoy dating are Masochists. Dating fucking sucks. It sucks worse than one of those epic bouts of food poisoning where lava is flowing out of your asshole and you're puking so violently into the trashcan that it's splattering your face and there's nothing you can do to fix it.

When someone says they like dating I decide immediately that I don't want to date them, ever. I won't even let it buy me Taco Bell even though it's 2 a.m. and all I can think about is how much I want a burrito in and around my mouth area. Why? Because if you're into dating and therefore a Masochist you're going to be into some weird shit. These are the guys that want you to pee on them and then roll around in your urine or they want to do it "Rockstar" style. The "Rockstar" style is something new I learned recently and is a perfect example of why I hate random dating/hook ups. During a recent awkward encounter I found out the hard way, so many puns intended, that doing it "Rockstar" style means bareback. Some of you may also call this "raw dogging" which makes me puke in my mouth and promise my vagina that she's better than that. Things were going fine, not great just fine, until Tommy Lee rips off the condom, throws it against the wall and mutters something about "boring" and tries to pull a sneak attack on my peesh. Let me just throw it out there that I assume any dude I'm hooking up with has HPV, Herpes, all the kinds of Hepatitis and maybe even some STD that no one has heard about yet. I'd rather assume that a hazmat suit is necessary than have weird shit growing on my vagina. So I asserted my right as a white woman in America and threw that fucker out. I have to say I experienced more pleasure in seeing his look of fear and handing his friend his boxers and shirt the next morning than any kind of potential orgasm situation. Also you really shouldn't throw lubed condoms against a wall, it's gross. Have some respect Motley Crue.

I kind of get off on awkward situations. Watching socially awkward people flirt is one of my all time favorite things. Turn that into a reality show on Lifetime and I won't leave my apartment for the next three to four months. No joke. If I get the rare opportunity to witness this in person it's even more amazing. This might make me creepy but I give no fucks about that. Recently I learned that I don't like this as much when instead of two socially awkward people it's me and a dude who wouldn't realize that I'm not into him if it reached around and tickled his balls.

When I'm blacked out it's easy to mistake my lack of brain function with me being pleasant and possibly even friendly. In reality I'm just too fucking drunk to notice that you've had your hand down my shirt for 30 minutes. This is how "accidental dates" happen. When I think I'm just going to get free margaritas, maybe even a couple of tequila shots if I play my cards right, and suddenly freak of nature guy is telling people I'm his girlfriend and trying to hold my hand under the table like we're in love or something. I black into my life for a second, realize what's happening, don't know how to fix it, then proceed to go full Terri Schaivo status and stop all brain activity so I don't have to deal with the situation. When I wake up the next day I will ignore your Facebook friend request and feel nautious when you text me every 10 minutes. Don't get me wrong, I love attention. I'm okay with sharing the spotlight, but if I'm not at least the co-star of the show I'm secretly pissed and on the verge of choking everyone or flipping a table to put everyone back in check and remind them that I'm fucking awesome. It's easy to just hang out with a dude when you have a boyfriend because they know nothing is going to go down. Once that barrier isn't there, I feel like I have to make it clear what this night is about. I feel like the best way to handle this situation is to be honest; my go to phrase is "We're not fucking. But feel free to do shots with me and give me a lot of attention." If you don't like it then stop passing me tequila shots. Also don't try to hold my hand. EVER.

I hate that when you're pounding it out with someone you don't know so well you feel like you have to maintain a level of politeness. Especially if you're not sure if there's going to be a round two, or if you might want to let this person be a frequent guest on your reality show. My least favorite situation is the little engine that clearly couldn't, but wouldn't accept it and kept trying. I get it, whiskey dick happens. With the amount of alcohol I consume on a daily basis I'm fully aware of this and I won't judge you, much. But if we both know it's not going to work yet you insist on plowing away I'm going to kind of hate you when my peesh is sad and just wants to be left alone with a bottle of wine for the next 3 weeks. Also every dude I meet during this necessary hiatus hates you too. Thanks for ruining it for everyone. At least when this happens with someone I'm familiar with I can politely say "Get the fuck off me so I can drink a beer and see what's on HBO" instead of being completely silent and making pained faces until dude realizes that I'm less than not into it, I actually HATE it and want it to stop immediately. Also apologizing profusely doesn't fix it. I don't want to have to comfort you when I need you to leave so I can apologize to my vagina for letting that go on for longer than necessary.

I fully believe that the whole idea of monogamy stems from pure laziness. It's fucking exhausting constantly having to learn how someone likes their blow job, if they're a morning sex person or if they want you to call them daddy and punch them in the face when they blow their load. I imagine that after being with someone forever you know all the go to's and already have your fist clenched when they start making that weird squeal/yelp noise. It's almost like having a second job that most times pays really shitty and ups your dry cleaning bill. I wouldn't be opposed to an arranged marriage. If my mom wants to man hunt for me and convince some dude who makes 6 figures that I'll be a great wife and bear him lots of fetal alcohol babies I'm totally cool with that. I feel like in most cases I'm getting the better end of the deal. This poor bastard is stuck with me and I can stop shaving my legs and snort his epic paycheck right up my noise when I'm not injecting it into my arm. Also I wouldn't have to learn anything about anything because I'd be too fucked up to be more than a corpse. I'm calling my mother immediately, this needs to happen before I'm 30 and full blown tragic cat lady.

On the other hand, fuck it, Casual Encounters here I come. I need a drink and I haven't cashed my paycheck yet.

once, twice, three times a train wreck.

I promise that my blogs for the next 6 months will not be about my break up. Seriously. I mean not that I'm trying to brag or anything but life has been pretty good since I went back to my trolling for dick and taking my pants off in public days. I'll be 30 soon and won't be able to post that shit on the internet anymore so I figure I'm pretty smart to live it up now and pound my way to the middle of...something. I'm not sure what happens to you after you turn 30 but I feel like something weird is going to happen to my peesh. Like it will become more selective or something and clamp shut if a 23 year-old who works at California Pizza Kitchen tries to get in there. And I like playing the cougar card every so often. I mean when else is it appropriate for me to do that weird bendy thing that only the 23 year-olds know I can do? Right? Exactly. But I digress.

I read a shit ton of magazines. Cosmo, Glamour, Lucky, Plucked (that one's not actually real but I feel like it should be); all those are sitting in my apartment somewhere. It seemed like fate that the week after I re-entered singledom all of them had articles on how to get through a break up. I tend to handle my problems the adult way, with tons of booze and blacked out hook ups, but I thought maybe I could try following a professional's advice for once. So I read every single mother fucking one of those articles. And you know what I learned? NOTHING BITCHES. It was all fucked up advice like "hang out with your girlfriends more" and "take yourself on dates and get to know yourself again." Are you shitting me? I was ALREADY taking myself out on dates when I paid for dinner every night without the mystery of "is she or isn't she" because I already knew I was going to put out. And weird, my girlfriends don't want to hang out with me and risk the chance that I'm going to have a public mental breakdown and lie in the gutter crying at any moment. Thanks for nothing you overpaid and underdressed cunts. I decided that I'm going to break down how to get over a break up with the real business. The truth hurts so if you're feeling emotionally unstable put the razor away and grab a glass of wine instead. I promise....booze fixes everything. Except an unplanned pregnancy, trust me on that one.

These are what I've discovered are the stages of a break up; so those of you who think you're with "the one" will be ready for the shitshow when it happens. If you disagree I give NO FUCKS because I'm right and you're dumb.

Stage 1:
The EPIC pity party. I'm talking lying on the ground listening to that "you beat my ass but I still love you song" from Rihanna over and over while sobbing and trying to force your dog to cuddle you when he'd rather jump off the balcony headfirst and then hobble into traffic to finish the job. This stage also factors in the moments when you're sitting in public with a friend and suddenly burst into tears for absolutely no reason. You're sitting there blowing snot into her french fries and she's fucking pissed because she has to pretend that she doesn't care and she's supportive of you when she really wants to stab you in the throat because every attractive male in a 10 mile radius has slowly backed away and now that they're not looking she would scarf down those fries but she can't because you got bodily fluids all over them. We've all seen that girl crying in her car, sitting in traffic, screaming some Kelly Clarkson song at the top of her lungs and punching her steering wheel. We've laughed and cried with this girl. Reality check...you ARE this girl. In my case it was an Adele song and I was also chain smoking but you get my drift. Looks of pity and fear on all sides. The only thing worse than traffic? Being stuck next to that hot mess.

Stage 2:
Once the pity party ends the real party begins. I've now decided that I'm going to be so god damn fun that the fun police might actually show up at The Rape Den (aka my apartment for those of you not cool enough to know) and arrest me. This leads to Tuesday night blackouts where I wake up on Wednesday morning naked, on my living room floor, while my dog looks at me with shame and remorse and refuses to let me touch him. I may have also come to consciousness on my balcony at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning realizing that I have no pants on and the public has had full access to my upper thighs and wedgie for possibly 30 minutes or more. Who cares though? I mean what would Lindsey Lohan do? I can tell you...another line and then she'd get right back on that acid tripping horse and do it all over again. The party stage is fun but it's also a struggle when you're pushing thirty and those bags under your bloodshot eyes don't just magically disappear over a few hours. Those bitches stay with you. And I'm on a man hunt. No one wants to date the girl who is storing tequila shots on her face. Not cute. This stage loses it's appeal when you come to and realize that you've brought a grade A douchebag to your apartment and homeboy thinks he's going to stay over and cuddle. Fortunately that whiskey shot was ready to make a second appearance and nothing makes a dude bail from your apartment faster than puke. Or a positive pregnancy test sitting on your bathroom sink. FACT.

Stage 3:
This is when I decide that I am going to buckle down and really land Mr. Right. I am going to find that unicorn of a man who appreciates my sarcasm, loves my spaz of a dog, thinks my cat shitting on the floor is charming and has no problem staying sober and picking me up off the floor of bars to take me home and cuddle me and tell me I'm pretty. This stage doesn't last long because I quickly realize that I'm half in Stage 1 and 2 still and this perfect man is not going to want to date me when I have tears and vomit on my face/clothes/body/in my purse. Coming back to Stage 3 is probably a good idea. We all saw that childhood movie where they killed all the unicorns anyway. No sense in striving for the impossible.

Stage 4:
I call this the Mary-Kate stage. This is when you decide that you will stop eating and be the sexiest corpse ever. My ex will sob at my funeral when he sees how hot I became and he'll totally want to put it in me but I'll have bodyguards to ensure that nothing goes up there. I made out with a mortician once and he over shared, I know what kind of shit goes down. Someone is guarding my vagina until it's burned to a crisp in that big ass oven. This is also when you decide that you're going to join a gym, start waking up an hour early to jog, fill your fridge with lettuce and carrots and save all of your calories for that bottle of wine you have to drink when you get home from work because you can still be fun when you're emaciated. Then you realize that your booze budget doesn't allow any room for a gym membership. Also I really hate sweating in public. Almost more than I hate watching other people sweat in public. If someone's sweaty limb brushes against me it's an immediate dry heave situation. If I'm wet in public it better be because it's raining or I'm involved in a wet t-shirt contest and nailing it. Also after that bottle of wine I kind of need a burrito. It's necessary. Also let's all remember that Mary Kate is recovered now. Sort of. You know you've moved on from this stage when you wake up with an empty bag of Doritos in your bed and instead of feeling bad you're just sad that you have to stop and buy another bag on your way home from work today.

Stage 5:
Now that I've realized that I don't burst into tears for no reason anymore and that fucking song that used to make me scream and dive for the knob to my radio while swerving and possibly killing children while driving doesn't even make me flinch anymore, I've decided that I hate most men and give no fucks if I die alone.  I'm tired ya'all. I'm broke from my month-long bender and the last bruise from falling down my stairs every night is finally in that weird yellow/green stage. I don't care about impressing anyone and licking a stranger's face just because I can. I don't feel like I'm losing in this break-up war if I stay home and watch a movie and go to bed at 10:00 p.m. I also feel like if I meet a cool dude rad. If he's cool and also has pro status at 69ing and wants to share some insight into that one position where your leg is all....nevermind...that's even better. I know that the homies who stuck by me while I went batshit crazy and probably shouldn't have had sharp objects in my home will fix me if I lose my shit again.

Also, just for clarification, as far as I'm concerned...I WON.

But you can still feel free to take me out and buy me drinks. I'll split my burrito with you and insult strangers. Who doesn't want/need that in their life?

EXACTLY.

you've seen me naked...now let's be friends?

I recently had the joyous experience of changing my Facebook relationship status from "In A Relationship" to "Single". I would have preferred the option to change my status to "I'm Sad and Willing to Let you Buy Me Massive Amounts of Drinks and Tell me I'm Pretty for a Handjob" but Facebook is too lame to have that option. Also I feel like when you change your status someone from Facebook should mail you a care package with Xanax, slutty underwear and a bottle of Jim Beam. A gun would also be cool but I can see why that might cause a conflict of interest. 

 

In the past when I've broken up with someone they've immediately been dead to me. They've pretty much been transported to another planet where their genitals are gnawed off but regenerate just to get gnawed off again the next day by some nasty little creature covered in scabies and crabs. At least if dreams came true that would be the case. Kidding. Sort of. Not really at all. But I don't believe in remaining friends with someone who has seen you naked, most likely farted on you at some point and/or has high-fived one of your siblings after tagging you in their guest room. I feel like if you don't like me enough to buy me flowers and walk my dog when I'm too drunk...then you don't get the pleasure of watching me go full tranny train wreck status every weekend and most weekdays. 

This particular situation is precarious for multiple reasons. Also I feel like at this point in my life I need to start working towards this whole being a mature adult thing. I figure since I still take my pants off in public and vomit behind bars on the weekend, and I don't plan on fixing that anytime soon, I can be more adult in how I handle disappointments in my life. The whole "let's be friends" discussion came up. My first thought was "DIE". No joke. I wanted his life to end. I pretty much wanted his body to explode into blood and gooey shit like when a vampire is staked on True Blood. After my homicidal anger somewhat subsided to a level 2 rage blackout...I considered the option. But here's the thing, when a guy says he wants to be friends after a break up what he really means is "I don't want bad karma for dicking you over and would like to think I have the option of pounding you again someday." What a girl like me thinks is "I would rather pound ANYONE in the world than you right now." And when I say anyone I mean Danny Devito can writhe his tiny, hairy little body all over me and I'd be okay with it. 

As far as having sex with an ex, I see it this way; unless I can literally black widow you after sex, then no. The muffin shop is closed my new friend. For me it's not so much that I think I'd feel all lovey and shit if I boned someone that I genuinely liked and wanted to be around at one point and now range between slight affection and pure hatred for, it's more that I don't want to know that you are having a good time. Even if that good time ends up in my hair a little bit, I'm not about it. I'd like to believe that your penis is rubbed raw from all of your masturbating and that the last girl who looked at you at the bar laughed when you thought you had a chance. Also I want him to think that I've slept with so many people since we broke up that my vagina is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Just think about that for a second. Yeah, I know. Take a minute to vomit and then come back to me. If you bone each other than you know what's been going on. The chastity bush cannot make an appearance because then the mystery is all over. And let's be real, one of the best parts about being single again is letting shit get a little unorganized downtown. I'm pretty sure every person reading this wants to have sex with me right now. (Call me). 

My motto has always been: Date someone more fucked up and emotionally retarded than me so when I go full Courtney Love, it's just another Tuesday. The problem is that we all know what happened to Courtney and Kurt. I need to find someone who will gently coach me back into my pants, pull me out of the kiddie pool in someone's front yard at 3:00 a.m. and ice my fingers when I burn it on a cigarette while throwing my arms around violently telling a story to a homeless person outside the bar on a Thursday night. This doesn't work if my caretaker is taking a shit behind a van in a parking lot while trying to convince Dominos to deliver to him, mid-squat. Despite my intense love and adoration of fellow train wrecks, it's time to retire my flannel and ripped fishnets and try to find a real person to take whiskey shots with. 

I'll continue to work on being an adult and resist the urge to go all Carrie Underwood and carve my name into his torso while he sleeps. But if I slip up and "accidentally" leave my dog poop bag next to your car door consider yourself lucky. And then watch an episode of "Snapped" and you'll see what I mean.