it's like the real housewives of long beach. with cats.

Living alone, I’m not counting my furry roommates because they are senile and possibly autistic rendering them incapable of normal social interactions, might be turning me into a weirdo.

You never realize what deviant behavior hides inside your body until you live by yourself and you can let your freak flag fly. When I had roommates I was tempted to do gross things, like poop with the door open or drink a beer while pooping or maybe even finish that Chinese food I was eating that is causing this poop to happen while pooping. But obviously you shame yourself and close and the door and leave your beer and kung pao chicken in the kitchen so your roommate doesn’t think you’re fucking mental. Maybe you even keep it super classy if your roommate is a one-night stand that refuses to leave and you go poop at the Starbucks down the street. With the door closed and before you order your coffee so you’re not one of “those” people. By “those” people I mean who we wish we could be.

I’ve off and on had roommates. Prior to my current situation I lived with two roommates, some people might call them my parents but I don’t really believe in titles and quantifying people that way, and it kept me in check. Sometimes I wanted to not bother brushing my teeth or washing my hair or putting on pants all day. But I didn’t want the looks of judgment when I walked by smelling like a dirty diaper with my butt cheeks hanging out. So I did the damn thing and put on pants and brushed my teeth and maybe even showered. Unless it was Sunday. Then fuck that. You can’t ask that much of me on a Sunday. I also never let dishes pile up in the sink, and threw remnants of smelly food away outside to avoid ever having it cross my roommates’ minds that my vagina smells like raw salmon, and I kept my ass cheeks under wraps during business hours.

But now that I’ve been living alone for about 8 months, shit has gone downhill. I know I’m not the only one. I’ve had a friend describe how she ordered an extra large pizza, ate half while lying in bed, went into a food coma, woke up hours later and because the pizza box was still nestled next to her, ate the rest of the pizza. Bitch ate an ENTIRE extra large pizza. Crust and all. Would she have done that with a Jax Teller look alike sleeping next to her? NOPE. She would’ve pretended she was full after 2 slices and then gone to sleep hungry after having “I wanted more pizza” hate sex with him. Because that’s how a lady acts.

Another friend told me that he can only do household chores if he’s butt naked. Vacuuming with pants on? That’s fucking stupid. Bleaching the toilet while wearing a shirt? FUCK THAT. We’re doing this how we came into the world. Naked, covered in weird white shit and blood, and possibly screaming and crying. I picture the screaming and crying coming in when a little bit of bleach splashes onto his taint during a vigorous toilet scrubbing. It’s bound to happen. It’s science.

The best is a friend who had lived alone for years. The shit that has gone down in her apartment would make a show combining Intervention and Hoarders look like a day at Disneyland. I love her but she has problems. Her boyfriend was forced to move in with her for a few months after his apartment was infested with bugs, or prostitutes, or something undesirable. She called me panicking because she knows she’s a disaster. I told her to ignore all of her instincts and don’t do ANYTHING she normally does. For example, I’ve seen this bitch pick up a piece of pizza that fell face down on cat fur covered carpet and eat it. I get it, pizza is amazing and a piece should never be wasted. However, if your cheese has fur it’s time to walk away. Things were going fine until about 2 weeks in. She ignored me and ordered pizza after I strongly warned her against it. My beautiful friend dropped a piece of pizza (clearly she has hand-eye coordination issues) which resulting in the pizza interacting with some cat litter, and she ate it. Her boyfriend claims he heard crunching. You should not even be doing this ALONE but in front of another person you’ve hit your bottom. Honestly, I don’t think either of them have recovered. He may have even just lived in his car until he could move back into his apartment. I’m not mad at him. I still have nightmares about the cat litter crunch heard round the world.

I don’t think I’m as extreme as cat litter crunch, but there are things I catch myself doing that cause me to look around my apartment to make sure no one saw me. For example, when I got a new vacuum I was really excited. This is what single and 30 years old looks like, if you weren’t aware. Splooging over a new vacuum. This is it folks. Of course vacuuming is only exciting if you’re playing 80’s Madonna tracks and singing “Like A Prayer” like it’s the only way to save your life. This is what was happening in my apartment at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday. You don’t do this in front of other humans. You might vacuum in front of other humans. You might even sing a little bit. You DO NOT vacuum while aggressively dancing and sing so loud that someone two floors down, OUTSIDE, says “God damn” when you’re finished.

Or how about that time I put a bag of CheezIts back in the box upside down and when I grabbed them later to take to them to bed as my substitute for sexy time the bottom of the box opened up and I left a trail of CheezIts. I realized half-way back to bed what was happening and just let it be. I couldn’t be bothered with cleaning them up. No one was going to step on them. Also I might need to go back for them depending on how much I lost.

I might even now address inanimate objects in my house. It’s possible, once or twice, I’ve looked at my microwave and said, “Well ain’t that some shit?”. Or I’ve commented upon opening my refrigerator, “What in the mother fucking hell is happening?”.  Now I don’t expect my microwave and refrigerator to respond to these rhetorical questions. But I am ashamed to admit that if they did, I wouldn’t even be that freaked out. I told you. It’s gotten fucking BLEAK up in this bitch.

I don’t want my future one night stands reading this to get scared. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m unfuckable. I would die before it came to that. Seriously. Over the cliff Thelma and Louise style with my dog and cat (because they would never want to live without me) screaming Demi Lovato’s “Cool For The Summer” at the top of my lungs without pants on. My exit from the world would be god damn magical.

For real though, I don’t have things living on my body like the hoarders. There are no cat carcasses under my sofa. In fact, my apartment is ridiculously clean because of my cleaning/Madonna/80’s songs obsession. Also I’m maintaining all the necessary orifices. I literally just had hot wax ripped off my lady parts and my ass crack yesterday. (Note: Getting waxed in 100 degrees is NOT the business. Someone better hit on me after all this effort. I’m not fucking kidding.) The transients sniff my hair when I walk by them so I know I’m also nailing it in that respect as well. A drunk guy even said to his friend, “I’d fuck her” when they stumbled by me last night. He could have been talking about my dog, but since he’s not here to ask I’m taking that win assholes.

I guess I should probably force myself into more human interactions. It probably wouldn’t ruin me to make eye contact with people in Vons instead of staring straight ahead and pretending none of this is really happening. Or grabbing a drink at a bar where other humans are instead of chugging a bottle of wine at home and harassing my poor blind cat. Then again, my neighbors probably REALLY need to hear my rendition of “Bad Blood.” Seriously, you guys. I’m KILLIN IT. 

Bye Felicia. No seriously Felicia, get the fuck outta here.

My pact with my dog to abstain from dating in 2015 is going pretty well so far. In general I don't believe in abstinence as a cure for anything. I mean that's why we have condoms, meds, rehab centers, and Lindsay Lohan right? So we can do what we want but try to avoid splooging out a baby behind the gym at Junior Prom and passing around herpes of the rectum. Also we have lots of ideas for staying out of prison while not completing our community service thanks to my all-time favorite ginge.

I decided to put the needle and spoon away and just say no to dating in 2015 for one simple reason: I'm a fucking nightmare. I'm not responsible enough to make good choices. If you look at my track record of the last few years it's consisted of pounding it out with the emotionally damaged, borderline homeless, penile challenged (aka: "Is it in yet?"), emotionally retarded, almost jailbait, and a few whiny motherfucking baby bitches. I'm throwing up in my mouth just recapping this shitshow. When did I eat hot dogs? Weird.

Shutting down the muffin shop and not using the eggplant emoji was probably the most responsible, adult decision I've made since all those times I took Plan B when my dog gave me eyes of judgment and tried to drag me down stairs. Seriously, he's like the unplanned pregnancy whisperer. Thank god someone else can be responsible for what happens in my vagina after 13 whiskey ginger ales.

Not dating hasn't been entirely easy though, I'll admit. I mean when the eggplant emoji disappeared from my recently used options, I felt a twinge of sadness. I haven't gotten a dick pic in months. Scratch that, my friend did send me multiple dick pics of various animals during a trip to a wild animal park. However none of those dicks were an offer so they filled no void. Pun most definitely intended. I can't use first date jitters as an excuse to pregame like I'm in college again before leaving my house. The stench of shit really is much more noticeable on my street when I'm not border line unconscious. Also the transients don't seem quite as friendly when I can see their "fuck this stupid white devil bitch" face clearly. It also sucks that I always have to do all the work, every time. No more pretending to be too tired to return the favor. And let's be real, sex with the same person all the time gets a little monotonous. Even if it's with me...and I'm a good fucking time. Have you ever tried role-playing by yourself? Yeah, shit gets weird.

The one thing that has helped me stay strong and keep this shit on lock down has been the rando dudes from my past that pop up and remind me why men are the cause of all the diarrhea and migraines I've ever had. Seriously. You bastards owe me so much toilet paper and Excedrin Migraine and we might as well throw in the booze I've consumed to pretend you never happened.

There was a dude that I mentioned a while back that I believe I referred to as The Actor. We text flirted for a couple of weeks, then in person flirted, then made out in a parking structure and then homie phantomed; which really pissed me off because that's MY game. I give a one week grace period because I'm a gem like that. If you don't text me a picture of the plane crash you survived or the pamphlet from your grandmother's funeral after that one week period, you are dead to me. So I did the normal thing after not hearing from The Actor after a week. I went to a bar, got super shitfaced and in a toast hoped he died in a car fire. And they say no one has class anymore! But of course, as I'm on my way over to The Beard's house for an adult sleepover before that shit went horribly wrong, The Actor sends a text. I can't remember exactly what it was but it was something about acknowledging I'd written a blog about him being a baby rapist. Now I can't confirm he is a baby rapist. But I also can't confirm he is NOT a baby rapist. It threw me into a rage. You missed the grace period bro! You died in a car fire that caused you much pain and suffering. HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU TEXTING ME!? I was being forced to accept the fact that this bitch was still alive. Ugh. I really, really hate knowing the truth. Also it's like you assholes have this sixth sense that a girl is getting ready to have a bag of dicks shoved in her face/head/upper body area so you need to text her and ruin her joy. NOT COOL. Once you disappear, you're supposed to disappear forever. Seriously. FOR-E-VER.

There's another dude that's been in and out of the picture for like 10ish years now. It's like this whole fucked up will we or won't we scenario. Every time I get comfortable that it's definitely won't, that son of a bitch literally comes barreling back into my life and fucks everything up again. If I'm somewhat touching the genitals of a dude I immediately question everything and generally pull my disappearing act. Then just as he's ruined my entire life...gone again. He's my herpes. With, like, year lapses between outbreaks. But when an outbreak happens, it's god damn awful. He also has that spidey sense when I'm emotionally stable (well as much as I can be) and then Tasmanian devil's the fuck out of my life. I'm pretty sure our last exchange resulted in me drunkenly recording a video wherein I tried to recreate Beyonce's "Single Ladies" music video wearing a bathrobe and possibly a fedora. My blacked out self couldn't even handle what I'd done and deleted all incriminating evidence. Blurry flashbacks are all I have. I have a feeling once I post this thing I'll be having another outbreak. Someone bring me one of those furry donuts to sit on...please thank you.

Finally there is the ex that has never gone away. Like one of those skin tags. They're annoying but it's not worth the dermatologist bill to go get it burned off. You just accept that it's going to be there and sigh when it texts you and you don't know how to respond. I'm not an overly nice or polite person. I'm not the person that someone asks for directions or the friend that you'd expect to bend over backwards for you when you've been a cunt for the past few months. I'm the bitch that will pretend to not notice that you're lost and take a fake phone call. And if you haven't entertained me in some way in months don't fucking call and ask me to help you with something. Sorry, stubbed my vagina yesterday, can't lift my arms or move my head. If an animal needs help I'm all over it. But people? I mean you can call 911, a cutey baby puppy cannot. So despite my inclinations to not really give a fuck I somehow find it in me to be sort of pleasant. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a struggle. I'm emotionally and mentally exhausted after more than 3 texts have been exchanged. For some reason though I always respond and I'm always nice. So then, of course, because I'm a female, I have to sit and analyze the conversation for anywhere between 3 hours to 3 days and try to understand why I respond and why I'm pleasant and why it even matters. During this time period I am missing out on valuable trolling for dick (TFD) time and that's just not right. The public needs me.

So to these dudes and all the other randos that I hung out with one time or made out with in a bathroom or blew in an alley or whatever, BYE FELICIA. You're supposed to be a part of my fantasy world where anyone who has wronged me has suffered a terrible death. Generally it should involve being eaten alive by tiny little spiders, or burning or having all the skin torn from your body over a several day period, or something of that nature. WHEN YOU TEXT ME I HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE YOU LIVE. I have to accept that karma is not on my side and that you're probably having fun sometimes and I don't want to.

Also stop ruining my one night stands. Seriously. Stop. I hate having to explain why "NEVER ANSWER" or "HE FUCKING SUCKS" or "HERPES" is texting me at 3 a.m. when I was trying to find my other shoe to sneak the fuck out of OkCupid date fail #345's apartment. Pretend I was eaten by spiders. You have my permission.

Oh and OkCupid, I'll see you in 2016.

sex with leprechauns and dinosaurs and prison inmates.

There are two kinds of people in this world. Well I mean as far as dating and relationships go. Don’t get all politically correct and crazy. I also watched Pocahontas and know about the colors of the wind and multiculturalism and all that. Now change your diaper and simmer down.

There are people who thrive in and want to be in a relationship and there are people that lose their god damn mind and cannot mentally handle being in a relationship. You can probably guess which category I fall into. (Reminder: I have a blind cat and a 17 year-old dog.) The whole idea of being a “we” and having to consult with another human being about where I’m going, what I’m doing, how many new shoes I’ll be buying this month and if I had 3 or 33 drinks yesterday sort of makes me feel like all my insides are going to explode. Yes, that is a creative way of saying diarrhea.

I see my friends in relationships and sometimes it looks awesome. I wouldn’t mind having someone who is obligated to hang out with me all the time and to tell me I’m cute when I wake up in the morning with one eyebrow still on and my eye shadow on my chin and bring me ginger ale and a burrito when I’m hungover and leave the house for at least an hour when I have to poop after the burrito. I wouldn’t hate consistently getting laid and having date nights with bottles of wine and having someone co-parent my pets (aka clean the cat box when I’m too hungover and will barf or walk my dog when the thought of putting on pants would be worse than death). If that’s all it is, sure, I’m super down.

Then you realize that relationships are also pubes all over the bathroom and boy pee stains on the toilet seat and fights at 3 a.m. and jealousy and crying and cheating and a lot of fucked up shit man. Wine and sex can only fix so much. Why can’t it just be the good stuff? Why do people need the drama and the talking and the sharing of feelings and joint bank accounts and shared property and “our song” and the nonsensical bullshit?

I’m not saying that monogamy and marriage and commitment are dumb. Apparently (allegedly) it does work out for some people. But to be honest I’ve yet to see a long-term relationship work without one or both people compromising important aspects of what makes them, them.

I’ve had so many female friends that I adored because they were independent, confident, fearless, opinionated, bold and drank and cursed like sailors. My people. Then they meet a dude who’s pretty dull and bland and suddenly everything lovable about them is gone. It turns into “we don’t drink during the week” (what the fuck does that even MEAN!?) and the invites become third-wheel excursions always and suddenly I despise this person. I can’t even remember what I liked about her. Or the friends that only call you when their dude isn’t around but want to spend the whole time you’re with them texting him and bitching about him and being pissed off she’s not with him. Meanwhile I’m sitting their imagining myself shoving her phone down her throat or throwing my drink in her face and screaming “PROSTITUTE WHORE!!!” while attempting to flip the table that is clearly screwed into the floor because of people like me. I would rather be mauled and have each limb individually ripped off by a super cute polar bear than be this person. (Note: If I ever do become this person you have my permission to throw me into a polar bear exhibit at the zoo and taze anyone that tries to save me. This is a binding document.)

I’d like to believe that in the future, a dude will walk out of prison a free man, walk into a bar, put a song by The Kills on the jukebox, order a Moscow mule and will be my long-term one night stand. However, I also realize that he will likely ride to the bar on a unicorn with his pet Velociraptor and his leprechaun sidekick. But I’m going to hold out. I’m not going to stop cursing, drinking, offending white people in public, refusing to wear pants indoors and letting dishes pile up in my sink because I REALLY, REALLY hate doing dishes.

I’m not going to pretend I like your mom’s piece of shit little dog that tries to bite me, or let your weird aunt think I would ever let you put a baby in me, or stop talking about poop, or hang out with your lame ass friends that still play video games, or pretend it’s ok that you troll bars after I go to bed, or let you tell me I can’t keep the TV on all the time, or let you take the outside spot in bed, or pretend I like to cuddle because I for the love of god don’t want to be swaddled like a baby with your body.

If not being willing to compromise what makes me awesome doesn’t work for you, then I guess all I can say is PEACE OUT MOTHERFUCKER. Go park your U-Haul of bullshit in someone else’s asshole. (Seriously though, nothing goes in my asshole.) I’ve already come to terms with my cat lady future and all my silverware matches so as far as I’m concerned, I’m fucking NAILING IT. 

Whoever says 30 is the new 20…please immediately walk into traffic. Cool, thanks.

I’ve learned a lot since I turned 30. I’ve learned that if you’re going to buy sangria at the grocery store, make sure it already has the brandy in it. I’ve learned that if you are polite to the transients and let them talk to your dog like he’s a person they (probably) will not rob or stab you. I’ve learned that when it’s humid outside your armpits will be constantly sticky, no matter how much deodorant you put on. I’ve learned that just because someone was your friend at one time, doesn’t mean they have to be your friend for always (bye Felicia). I’ve learned that a beard doesn’t fix everything (i.e. small penis, shitty personality, mommy issues), but being really great at oral can help. I’ve learned if someone is really god damn annoying it’s ok to block them on your iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Tinder, OkCupid, Myspace, AIM, AOL, life, etc. I’ve learned that it’s ok to forgive, but only if it comes with lots of free drinks, genuine sorrow and should probably involve Chanel sunglasses. I’ve learned that it’s also ok not to forgive and wish crabs, bed bugs and herpes of the eye on that son of a bitch. To get all sentimental up in this bitch, I’ve also learned that real friends text you just to see how your day went and keep asking questions when they know you’re lying. And I’ve learned that my family is fucking nuts but I appreciate and adore each one of them (especially my cutie baby niece who makes my heart hurt every time I see her) and I need them to keep me grounded and slightly less homicidal (thanks Mom for the muscle relaxers and wine).

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that once you turn 30, people feel like they can ask you really fucked up questions and it’s totally normal. Like all of a sudden you’re ready to discuss your menstrual cycle, color of your cervix, and admit that your wine and pill relationship is merely to fill the void of not having a husband and a 3 month old ripping off your nipple after ripping open your favorite orifice. No one asked me these questions in my 20’s. Let’s do a little comparison between the questions asked at 20, and approximately 72 hours after you turn 30.

The Future/Financial Stability

In your 20’s:

Q: What are your plans after college?

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you saving up to buy a house? What kind of health insurance do you have? How’s your pension plan? When do you think you’ll be able to retire? But seriously, how much money do you have saved to buy a house?

Listen bitches. I’m still on the question about what my plans are after college. Yes, I realize I graduated college 7 years ago. However, due to the alcohol consumption and bad decisions made immediately afterwards, I like to pretend I just graduated a few years ago. And let’s be real, my only plan for the future is maybe don’t die. Also, fuck your house.  

Getting Wifed Up and Pooping Out a Baby

In your 20’s:

Q: Do you have a boyfriend? (And if the answer is no the response is always something positive like, “Good, stay single. There’s plenty of time for that!” or “Enjoy your 20’s. Fuck everyone. Literally.”, etc.)

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you married? How soon can you lock that shit down? Are you pregnant? How soon can you make that happen? How is your womb? Are you ovulating right now because I think that guy with the glass eye across the room is looking at you? Are you at least dating and trying to get a husband? Have you tried match.com? Have you tried standing on a street corner with a sign? How depressing is it being single in your 30’s?

Honestly, the fact that I haven’t offed myself yet should be considered an accomplishment. One year ago people were congratulating me on being single and married people yearned for my life. Now, people act like I have a terminal disease or a face tumor and married people look at me with sympathy and pretend they don’t want to smother their husband/wife with a pillow every night. What the shit is happening? Shouldn’t I receive a Nobel Peace Prize or something for not adding to the overpopulation of this country? Shouldn’t I be high fived for my independence and women’s rights and leaving all the shitty dudes there for you desperate bitches to have? Shouldn’t it be appreciated that my downstairs is immaculate and there’s still a solid border between my v hole and my b hole? So the answer to all the questions about marriage and babies is I’M MOTHER FUCKING BUSY. Go talk to that bitch on the corner with a sign “Free to good home.”

Miscellaneous Emotional Fuckery

In your 20’s:

Q: What bars are you hanging out in now? Did you hear your ex-boyfriend is dating a super gross 18 year-old? How are your parents/siblings doing? How’s Hercules?

In your 30’s:

Q: God you STILL hang out at that bar? Did you hear your ex-boyfriend is married to a super successful doctor and they hatched their beautiful baby from an egg so she didn’t have to ruin her perfect vagina? Are your parents still alive? How jealous are you that your brother has a really adorable baby? Holy shit that dog is still alive!?

Okay. First of all, I don’t go to church, I go to mimosas. Freedom of religion bitches. You sit in a pew, I sit on a barstool. Mind your business. Yes, you would be the 11th person to tell me how well that rancid turd is doing. Also that baby will realize it has a turd and a twat for parents so I still WIN. I swallow my potential accidents. Yup, I said it.

My parents are still alive. Because they are in their 50’s and I am ONLY 30 GOD DAMMIT. Also I realize that my older siblings are married, with houses, and doing great. You don’t need to bring that to my attention. I wake up in my studio in the ghetto every morning with a dog pressed up against my asshole and a cat screaming in my face for food. Life choices. Turns out if I decided to convince the dude with the glass eye at the bar that I’m ready to lose my virginity and try it bareback I could poop out a baby. However, I’m not sure if glass eyes are genetic and I’d rather just adore my baby niece and buy her shoes instead of food, diapers, etc. And lastly, my dog will outlive us all. See you at the end of days mother fuckers.

Next time you’re tempted to ask me, or any 30 year-old who’s nailing it in her own way, a question that would require actual words that would interrupt the flow of that margarita going down the throat, shut your mouth. Then go home and ponder not shanking your husband while I go home and drink wine on my couch without pants on. LIFE WIN. 

my downstairs is retired until further notice.

I know, I've been missing for a while. I'm sure you've been rocking back and forth in your room, sobbing and sweating and refreshing your browser for weeks waiting for this moment. WELL I'M BACK MOTHERFUCKERS!

I'll explain my absence. Obviously my favorite topic is dating and how lame the dudes that enter my orifices are. Well I made the brave and heroic choice that I was not going to date this year. Yup. Muffin shop is closed, be back in 2016. Consider my downstairs a condemned building that not even the transients want to hang out in. Actually that's not true, the transients that live on my porch fucking love me.

I made this decision based on looking through my phone at the texts I had from the last dudes that have put it in me. Turns out they were all fucking assholes. Seriously. Not one redeeming quality among the entire group. I didn't even find them entertaining. My emotions ranged from pity to complete disgust to blind hatred. I stopped giving pity fucks in my early 20's. Sorry ya'all missed out. So I decided since I'm obviously incapable of getting naked with decent human beings, I'm saying no to the entire male population. Bye OkCupid. Bye Tinder. Bye Felicia to all the twat buckets I deleted from my phone. I'M FUCKING BUSY.

Honestly not dating has been going better than expected. I'm saving money by only buying my own drinks. Leeches. I rarely ever have to put on pants after 7 p.m. I don't have to share my wine with anyone. And my dog loves me even more because I'm not making him sleep next to a smelly, hairy dude. The best part is that I can get super blacked out, make out with my Uber driver and not have to apologize to anyone. Seriously, Saturday night shit got real.

Just when you think your life is kind of nailing it, you have dinner with your friend who reminds you that you're 30 years old now and your vagina is going to betray you and stop liking dick soon. Like not tomorrow soon, but the kind of soon where you think it's super far away and then one day you wake up and your lady parts have packed a suitcase and moved to Hawaii to live out their days in a Leisure World on the beach. Or in medical terms your shit is dried up like a Saudi desert and not enough lube in the world can resurrect it. Basically it was like scared straight, but I guess scared slutty would be more accurate. Suddenly I wanted to rub genitals with everyone, everywhere. If you don't use it, do you lose it!? I'm not going to wait around to see what the answer is.

Because face to face interactions with people is exhausting and I'm mentally incapable of conversation after 6 p.m. on weekdays, it was back to my abusive boyfriend OkCupid. I've been back for a little bit now and this is what I've learned. There are only four types of dudes in the world. And this is why I will die alone.

1. The dude who thinks he's a great lay.

This is the guy who sends you one witty message and then in response to your even wittier message (because I've got it like that) immediately goes into detail at how great he is at eating pussy. It may even be the only thing written on his profile. I have learned from many, terrible experiences that any guy who says he's amazing at oral is going to flop around in your vagina like a dying walrus. There's going to be spit everywhere and you're going to have to apologize to your peesh for letting this happen to her for weeks. If you have to talk about how great you are at something, I'm going to assume I'd rather walk into traffic then let you violate my clitoris. So if you've dated me, and told me you were a great lay, and I never talked to you again, you were wrong. Go read a fucking book man.

2. The hot mess.

I'll admit I'm kind of a nightmare. Case in point, as mentioned before last Saturday I blacked out, made out with my Uber driver (who still charged me, fucker), passed out on my bathroom floor and then dragged my dog on a walk at 2 a.m. so he wouldn't shit my bed at 6:00 a.m. Obviously I have some emotional problems. But because I'm a disaster, I attract the dudes who are like "Hey, I like to get drunk and rage too!". This translates to: I will drink way more than I can handle, grope you in a parking structure and then if you're too inebriated to realize it's a bad idea, you'll take me home and then I'll pee in your bed and make your dog hate you for always. As much as I can't handle being a person sometimes, I've never peed a bed, vomited a bed, or shamed myself in front of a one night stand. If I'm telling you to get your shit together, you probably should.

3. The I'll fucking wife you on the second date guy.

If you haven't already guessed, I'm not looking for a husband. All I want is to hang out with someone cool who likes brunch and won't try to convince me that my dog is spoiled and I need to "discipline" him. He's 107 years old, he does what the fuck he wants, get over it. But there's always that guy that thinks he can change my mind. For example, I met an older dude and thought at the very least he could pay for his own shit and maybe mine. We hung out and I guess I mentioned my affinity for French Bulldogs. I might be slightly obsessed with them. Perhaps I've already decided that mine will have one eye and be named Pierre. (Make note if you try to wife me that this is your future.) Day after date one, when I'd already decided I could do silver fox sexy but wrinkled balls were not going to be on this youthful chin, dude sends me a picture of a frenchie. That he wanted to adopt. TO BE OUR DOG. Good. God. You want to combine my daddy issues, with your mommy issues, and you don't think we're going to end up on an episode of Snapped? No.

4. The guy with the lying bitch of a mother.

Mothers, stop telling your unemployed, boring, unattractive sons that they're hot pieces of ass and shouldn't settle. What you should be telling them, if you cared about the rest of us, is that they're not great and if a lady is willing to settle they should be grateful and treat her well and pay for her drinks. I'm sick of meeting dudes that have really nothing going for them, but because their mom told them so, they think they're better than everyone. If you're a hairy troll with no sense of humor and nothing to offer, stop acting like you're Channing Tatum. I know my limits. I know where I stand in the world and I high five myself and give compliments frequently when I nail a 8 or 9. I might even buy him brunch and not throw up near him when I drink 80 mimosas. My mom tells me I'm great all the time but I'm not a fucking moron and I know I came from her womb so of course to her I'm fantastic. Dudes, if your mother tells you you're better than everyone, hands down you're a 3 or a 4. Own it and stop being such a fucking dick.

In summary, I've gone back into retirement. Until I run out of money to buy my own drinks, I'm staying here with my wine and my dog and without pants. CALL THE COPS, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK.

Cuntosaurus...the dinosaur that lived.

I don’t want this to turn into another commentary of bitches bitching about other bitches. But for real, I am over the cuntiness that envelopes my life sometimes.

I’d love to have a large group of lady friends that I adore and can hang out with and have a circle of trust where farting and break outs and eating really disgusting fat kid food is accepted and appreciated. However I’m pretty sure this dream lives on “Ain’t Gonna Fucking Happen” island along with all the decent dudes and unicorns and midgets that don’t run away from me. In real life, I think it’s super rare to have a group of girls that doesn’t contain at least one Cunty Carol.

Cunty Carol is the girl that gives you a back-handed compliment and then hugs you. She hugs you so tight that even if you went with your instinct to bitch slap her so hard her teeth would fall out the back of her head, you're physically incapable due to the bear hug that's happening. By the time she releases your body, you're so grateful it stopped that you let it pass and satisfy yourself by picturing her super fat with acne. We know her. We hate her. You might even be her. 

My new favorite thing that the Cunty Carol's of the world do is compliment your ex-boyfriend. Listen, I don’t know any female in the entire world who wants to hear positive things about the dude that ruined their life for a given period of time. I don’t care how “adult” you are and how much you’ve gotten over the life ruiner and you’re all happy and zen and mother fucking peace to the world and all that bullshit. You’re not a human if you actually wish them the best and hope their life gets better after you. It’s something that you say so people can admire how positive and grown up you are. (Oh look at Jenn, she’s just so great and such a positive person!) I can pretend that this empty orifice in my chest area has a heart and smile and make pleasant noises when someone says an ex is doing well. (Wow, I’m so glad to hear he has a great job and awesome new girlfriend that he’s super into. Sooooo happy for them!) But truly, all I want to do is punch you right in your face and let Mike Tyson bite off all your ears. And women know this. We all know it’s fucked up. Yet we’ve still got those Cunty Carol's that not just cross the line, that bitch squats and takes a shit on the other side of the line. Next time you open your twatty mouth and try to tell me that I’m wrong about this person that I slept with, basically lived with, and spent all my time with here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to kick you straight in your downstairs. Yup. I hope my toe goes right into your clitoris and sprains it. I hope every time you let a gross dude put it in you, you remember me and you shudder and cry a little.  

I’ve even experienced this from friends that I don’t think are intentionally trying to be an asshole. Maybe they are, hence my female trust issues. It’ll be a somewhat innocent comment about something they’ve seen on Facebook or Twitter or whatever cool social media is happening today. But sometimes those little pieces of information feel like a fucking punch to the throat. Where you feel your voice go up super high and this psychotic smile plasters on your face and you start trying to serve people food and drinks and hold someone’s baby. Anyone’s baby. GIVE ME A FUCKING BABY BEFORE I BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!!!!!!!!!! If I don’t follow my ex on Facebook, wouldn’t that be a pretty big indication I don’t want to know what he’s doing? I check obituaries so I’ll know if the mother fucker is dead. That’s about all the information I need. And that’s just so I know what bars I can start frequenting again. (Yup, I went there. Not sorry.)

So to all the Cunty Carol's of the world, next time you feel yourself opening that hole in your face that should really only have dicks in it so you can’t speak, imagine me kicking you. Hard. In your downstairs. Because I’ve had enough of your shit and woman power and feminism and all that is great. But if that means I have to sit back and let you intentionally Regina George me, NOPE.

If you consider me a friend and you’re reading this and know you’ve done this, feel free to buy me a drink next time we’re out and apologize. Also, you might want to check and see if I’m wearing studded boots.

I promise to continue propelling towards death in 2015. Cheers.

In general I don't believe in making New Years Resolutions. Why bother? We all know we're not going to remove money from our beer fund to give to charity, or stop masturbating to infomercials, or refrain from blacking out and sending messages to dudes on OkCupid telling them their mother doesn't love them. What would be the point in living? However, I have decided to make some resolutions that I know I can keep and that will not better my life or anyone else's. You're welcome.

Resolution #1:

Drink more, but better booze. Because I'm worth a $15.00 bottle of wine and I'm a mother fucking grown up with a real job. Also I'd prefer to have a manageable hangover on Wednesday morning as opposed to one of those hangovers where you have to blink a lot to prevent your brain from exploding. I would also like to not have to constantly reassure my coworkers that I'm not pregnant. Pretty sure I've been eyed near stairs. That ain't a baby bitch, that's a burger.

Resolution #2:

Date more shitty dudes. I mean that's really all there is anyway, right? I'm pretty sure all the great bearded wonders are on an island called "Ain't Gonna Fucking Happen" with the unicorns and leprechauns and forest nymphs. However if I do find this island someday I promise to NEVER TELL ANY OF THE REST OF YOU BITCHES. Because women don't share. That's why we can't be President. Also if I stopped dating shitty dudes what would I do with my life? Be content and fulfilled? Gross. Anger bangs are the new monogamy.

Resolution #3:

Get more tattoos. A shit ton more. I'd like to test the limits and see how many tattoos I can cover my body with before corporate America has a stroke. Also this albino skin is the perfect canvas so who am I to waste that? My first one in the new year should probably say "Daddy Issues" in black light ink. I mean, might as well mix art and function. Also, women's rights.

Resolution #4:

Travel more. I've traveled a lot within the U.S. but I've never left the country (besides Canada which was rad) and I feel like other countries need to know about me. I already know the Australians are into this because I've had quite a few of their tongues in my mouth. And I maybe allowed one to put it in me while in bed with my passed out friend. Allegedly. I can also confirm the Irish aren't scared of my blackouts and dirty talk from an Irishman is maybe one of the best things ever. I think it's about time I terrorize the French, German and Spanish. Summer 2015: start manscaping now gentlemen. I'm pretty sure the whole point of traveling abroad is to explore monuments, and other people's bodies.

Resolution #5:

Return text messages in a timely manner. Unless it's from a dude. Then wait 3 days to 3 weeks. Depending on how many other dude texts I'm ignoring at the same time.

Resolution #6:

I will stop  being the "bigger person" if that means letting a dude act like a fucker. No I do not want to be your friend after you bone me a few times then decide you'd like to bone some boring bitch but I should be cool with it so you don't have awful dating karma for the next 3 years. No. My friends are fun and awesome and I don't let them penetrate me. (Mostly.) I'm good on the friend quota, thanks. I will be the "vengeful person" and wish you horrible, terrible things and possibly try to hit you with my car when I see you walking down the street. Allegedly. Also I hope you get crabs.

Resolution #7:

Embrace the booty. Turns out 2015 is the year of the ass. I know this because during brunch on the first day of the year I encountered the most incredible ass I've ever seen. It was epic. I know the word epic is used incorrectly all the time but seriously, it works in this case. You could put your pitcher of margaritas on it AND bounce a small child off of it. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Therefore, I am proclaiming 2015 the year of the badunkadunk and will be knocking your toddlers over at Bevmo with mine. And I won't be sorry. (Dear parents, if you bring your child to Bevmo and it is blocking my path to the $0.05 wine sale I will trample it. You've been warned.)

Resolution #8:

This is my one resolution that is outrageous and much like promising to stop day drinking or truly feel happy for your friend and her super great boyfriend or not to fart in your bosses office when she's not there; but I'm going to give it as much effort as a porn star pretending she's into the nasty dude railing her. I'm going to immerse myself in new places and new people. I'm pretty comfortable in the people that I surround myself with now and moving back to the LBC isn't a huge deal since I've lived here off and on for years. But I think I've always been closed off to truly making this city my home and embracing all the weirdos that live here. I'm going to go sit at bars by myself and talk to old men, saucy women and douchey dudes. I'm going to get to know my neighbors and find out what their story is. (I am NOT going to fuck my neighbors. LESSON LEARNED.) I'm going to embrace socially awkward situations with humor and whiskey. And I'm going to FUCKING NAIL IT.

So here's to 2015 being a boozier, boner-filled, magical year. Cheers mother fuckers.