Just call me Mariah Carey singing live.

I'm almost 100% positive that I'm having a mid-life crisis. A few days ago I was only 98% positive and thought the 2% could be a pregnancy. Then I remembered that thanks to Science I am micro-chipped and my womb will remain vacant always. (Dear Science, I know I tell you this all the time but I truly do love you.) I'm pretty glad I didn't have to have an abortion for Christmas. Though I definitely would have put that in someone's stocking. (Too soon?) So yes, I am having a full-blown, white girl problems, bitch fit, mother fucking meltdown, mid-life crisis. These are the sure fire signs that it's time to take a Whitney Houston bath:

1. I believe with every inch of my being that Taylor Swift's new album is my life story. Literally, its my life. This is not a joke and you can mock me because I've mocked myself for hours already. Her song about shaking it off? I try to shake it off constantly. With booze. "Blank Space"? Umm...I too have a long list of ex-lovers who would probably say I was insane. At the very least they'd say I was a nightmare and impossible to please. Same difference. (Taylor, I feel you girl.) And don't even get me started on how "Clean" is the biography of every one of my failed relationships. Minus the whole growing flowers together thing. Fuck flowers. Wait, I dated a guy who grew pot plants in his closet. Damn you Taylor, you just know me better than I know myself. I am almost 30 years old. Just wanted to throw that out there.

2. I would sell my still functioning liver (barely) to move back to LB as soon as possible so I can start blacking out mid-week again, bang bar-backs from Ireland and pretend I'm 21 years old with no responsibilities or fear of herpes. Paying rent? Manageable, I need more vodka but I have a credit card. Relationships? Dumb, a one night stand can ignore my needs and escalate my daddy issues just as easily. Getting up for work? Still necessary, but no one needs to know I threw up on the side of the freeway and swallowed mouth wash to stave off my hangover for 10 more minutes. This is me winning.

3. I lowered the age of dudes that can check me out on okcupid to 18 years old. And I reply to their "Wanna fuck?" messages at 3:00 a.m. With emoticons. (Who am I?)

4. I upped the age of dudes that can check me out on okcupid to 50. And I reply to their "Can I take you to dinner and wife you?" messages at 7:00 p.m. With dick pics from the 18 year olds. (Where am I?)

5. I've seriously debated marrying someone that I haven't talked to in 2+ years because we made a marriage pact 15 years ago and sometimes I get bored and he asked me to marry him by emailing me this romantic poetry:

"If you're down, I'm down."

Who needs a ring, a sunset, or a beautifully grilled burrito and shot of tequila when you have that kind of magic? For real though. Fuck that guy. I'm pushing back the pact to 35. By then I'll be dead or more medicated than Anna Nicole Smith and agree to anything. Also, I am getting that quote tattooed on my body so I can remember how awful the things attached to penises are next time I think I want to keep one.

6. Once it was established there would be no 2016 wedding for this girl, I immediately seriously debated adopting 45 cats and filling my studio (because cat food is expensive mother fuckers) with empty boxes for them to sleep/shit/piss/die in. Maybe even an abandoned refrigerator because Hoarders taught me cats love to live in those things. I'm still waiting for my background check from Animal Control to go through.

7. I want to sell my Yaris and buy a super fast car that would look magical sailing over a cliff at 110 mph. Just picture it. Pretty incredible right?

8. I no longer tweet Oprah for help and advice. Turns out the advice given by Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus is way more useful to my lifestyle. Who knew sticking your tongue out, eating pussy every so often and doing lines off Harry Styles' taint was the cure to all my life problems? (Thanks guys, you're the best!)

9. What truly made me realize that I've completely lost my shit and need to apply for the next season of Bad Girls Club (How cute would I look throwing some bitches weave in the pool?) was when I almost talked myself into ex-sex. I have never let an ex put it in me. I've never even drunk dialed an ex, crying while peeing in an alley and screaming "What's her name!? I'll fucking kill you! I love you so much!". The one thing I have that keeps me out of prison is pride. I have way too much pride to beg, cry or pretend someone is good in bed after they've give me the speech. (The speech consists of "You're great, I'm just not ready for a relationship" or insert some other bullshit similar to that. My favorite is when they say that and then you see them trolling okcupid or the shitty dive bar down the street exactly 4 seconds later. You know who you are fuckers. Your mother doesn't love you). But back to my official loss of sanity, I did debate dick requesting an ex. I even typed out the text. And it was good too. Just the perfect level of dirty without needing to reiterate the safe word. Then the words "If you're down, I'm down" floated into my head and I verbally assaulted my phone and fled to the nearest bottle of wine next to my bed. This was my rock bottom guys.

So friends, ex-lovers, future lovers, future restraining order recipients, and internet trolls that I hope to god I never meet: your girl is back. The one that ran down the street without pants after puking behind a bar and then tried to sleep on a couch someone left in the middle of the street? She's here. The one that decided to break every shot glass that wasn't funny in her kitchen at 3 a.m. and then screamed "Who did that?" precisely 10 minutes later after smoking on her balcony and cat calling drunk people? She's also here. Oh yeah and don't forget that classy broad that walked her dog without pants on and tried to explain to a neighbor about human rights and put a bag on top of the dog shit but promised to come back for it later. She can't wait to see you.

Put your party panties on motherfuckers. I'M BACK.

Dear Santa, stop fucking us up with your lies.

I get it, it's cool to not care about anything. Oh my fish died? Whatever, he was kind of a prick anyway and never looked at me when I tapped on the glass and yelled into his mouth hole. Oh a plane crashed and a bunch of people died? Whatever, I don't know any Australians and I need to check my Twitter feed to see who's murdering Amanda Bynes's vagina today. Not caring makes you better than those fucking losers that donate money to abused animals and cry when they read the stories about the rape and torture of females in Uganda. Seriously, get some kleenex and shut the fuck up and go start a non-profit or something.

I'm not going to lie, I've gotten caught up in the giving zero fucks movement as well. I've had a lot of friends and dudes come and go over the past ten years of my life and I smile through it and shrug my shoulders and get the fuck on with my life. But in reality, feigning indifference is not the same thing. Hi, my name is Jenn and I care about things.

I briefly mentioned last time that I was hanging out with a dude. We'll call him The Beard. We'd been hanging out for a couple of weeks. Generally when you first start dating someone you try. For me, I make sure my hair is on point, my legs are shaved, my cat eye is flawless and I haven't eaten anything that day that could come back to haunt me. (Dudes if a girl eats Indian food, lots of onions or epic amounts of greasy Mexican food on a date, you are not getting in there. Nor should you try. I've heard some horror stories involving anal and curry. You're welcome.) Dudes should probably shower, make sure your balls aren't gonna make us gag, and at least attempt to be charming. The problem is, now that everyone wants to play the "I don't give a fuck game" none of this happens anymore. I mean I still made attempts to be presentable and my legs were mostly shaved. But in reality I wasn't super stepping up my game. And The Beard made no attempts to impress me. We were both trying so hard not to care and be nonchalant that it worked. We made ourselves believe that we really couldn't give a shit. No more text banter. We attempted to hang out maybe once a week but whatever if it didn't work out. I'd leave in the morning while he was still sleeping and then realize maybe that was a shitty thing to do but neither one of us cared enough to mention it. Then one of us didn't text the other back and it was done. Not even a "we need to talk" moment or "hey, you're really great but this isn't working out." Just nothing. Not even a "fuck you".

This situation makes me feel worse than a break-up after 8 months. At least when you go through a break-up you know you tried. Yeah you feel like you want to die and the thought of getting out of bed seems impossible and you realize your dog is soaking wet because you cried all over him for hours. (Sorry Hercules, I know after 17 years of dealing with me you probably fantasize about my death and that's ok I still love you.) But when a weird dating situation ends and I didn't even make a half-hearted attempt to see if things could work I feel defeated. I can't even explain what happened. All I can think is I must be really fucking awful at this whole dating thing and I start researching local convents and practice lying about being a virgin.

Then again maybe this is dating now. Where you meet someone online and they become a caricature of a person in your mind. They're just this cartoon character that sends you witty messages and because it's basically a blank slate you can make them as amazing as you want to in your mind. When the real person doesn't match up with what you imagined, and since in your phone you have them listed as "The Actor" or "The Beard" or "The Viking" anyway, it doesn't matter if you just stop talking to them. If they just fade off into the purgatory of dudes you used to talk to. Oh well, I just got a message from letmebangyou145 on okc so on to the next!

Maybe I don't want to be a cartoon character that entertains you. Maybe I don't want to be the person who's last name you never cared to know and the girl you text when you have nothing better to do and don't wash your balls for. Maybe I want to be the person you move your plans around for and the one you want to spend your weekends with and the one you call when you have a shitty day and need to talk about it.

Change starts with me or whatever right? Well actually I think change starts with Oprah but she's not returning my texts so I guess I'll have to do it for us. (Gayle, can you please have her call me? Thanks.) Despite my inclination to throw up the iron curtain, I'm going to make an effort to give a shit. And if I realize despite my efforts I actually don't, I'm gonna put my grown up panties on and say something. This whole phantoming thing is bullshit. Let's all woman the fuck up and tell someone when we're not feeling it. You might feel sick to your stomach for a minute and get stress induced buttcrack sweat, but honestly I think we'll all feel better afterwards. Closure is the new Ativan.

So to The Beard, if you're not too busy not giving a shit and reading this, I'm sorry for faking not caring so much that I actually believed it. Also please don't give my scarf to the next girl because if she's in Long Beach I'll see her wearing it and kick her in the uterus.

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.