This might come as a surprise to you but I have another bad habit that I don't believe I've mentioned as of yet. I like to put $50s into stupid computer machines to see if I can win millions...you know, gambling. Once I won $1,500 on a penny slot machine, and I've spent about $25,000 trying to do that again. On any given night I will go to the casino, which is located mere steps from my apartment, and pay $200 - $500 to sit and stare at a machine with penguins or samurais on it, while drinking myself into oblivion. As you picture this pathetic scene, you can imagine my innate surprise when last night, I actually met a great man there.
I was minding my own beeswax and noticed a tall, handsome, well-dressed guy walk by. "He's hot" I thought to myself, and got back to my Stoli and dancing penguins. About 2 minutes later he came up behind me and asked me if I can show him how to play the slots, he's never played before. As you need the brainpower of a Brussels sprout to figure it out, I knew he just wanted to talk to (or fuck) me. Fab. We chatted for the next hour, had a couple drinks, and decided to go grab a couple more at the club next door. He was actually relatively intoxicated, and kept saying so, but he seemed to still be able to string sentences together so I went with it. After an hour of great music he finally asked if he could kiss me. Yes, yes he could, and yes, yes we did, for the next 30 minutes. He kept saying things like "how are you single?" and "I think I love you already," you know, shit that makes my ovaries wake up and realize there's still hope. This guy was perfect. He has a great job that requires him to wear a sexy uniform, he's 32, single, owns his home, works 2 blocks from my apartment, and most importantly, thinks I'm amazing. Jackpot.
Now usually when I find a man I actually think has potential to become my husband, I don't sleep with him. But for some reason I wanted to sleep with my future husband last night, just mere hours after meeting him. So after the club we headed towards my apartment so we could browse China patterns online and devour each other. On the walk from the club to my apartment, there are several stairs leading up to my building. Yes, it can be a daunting task, but I haven't actually had any complaints. Then last night, after about 5 of the 50 stairs, my future husband stops and props himself up against the cement wall and says in his sexiest, drunk tone "come here." I had no idea how my chosen reaction would change our fate.
Instead of "coming here," I told him we were just a few steps away from my place, keep going, and I charged ahead; those China patterns weren't going to choose themselves. I got to the top of the stairs and looked back and he hadn't moved. He was still standing there, folded arms and all, like he was still waiting for me to "come here." I was confused. Surely he would muster up enough strength to scale the stairs for his future wife, right? I figured if I got out of sight, he would stop waiting for me to come back down and finish his scaling of the metropolitan Alps. My apartment really was just at the top of the steps, so I went to my doorway to wait. I waited about 5 minutes and still nothing. Huh. Oh well, I figured maybe he wasn't that interested in me after all, and I headed up to my place so I would have a safe place to sit as my ovaries re-shriveled. Although I didn't have my husband's number, he had mine, so I thought he may even call me when he realized I wasn't waiting. I ate an entire box of crackers and still nothing. Oh well, time for sleep I guess. I went to bed and was actually a little happy that we didn't have sex that night. There would be plenty of time for that in our new house, we'd discuss it tomorrow when we met with the wedding planner.
Well now it's tomorrow and I haven't heard from him yet. For the first hour I was awake I was just surprised that he hadn't called to tell his wife to have a nice day. Now as I piece together the night, I'm rather concerned about his safety. My husband told me probably a total of 26 times that he was "really drunk." When I made it to the top of the stairs and looked back at him standing there with his arms folded, were his eyes even open? Was he passed out standing up? It is a rather peaceful spot, not much noise that late at night, maybe he drifted off. Or maybe he got mugged. Or murdered. Fuck. I'm such an asshole. Who leaves their drunk husband for dead on concrete stairs and then eats crackers and goes to sleep? What am I, some kind of sociopath? Great. I've gone from having a husband to either being an ex-wife or a widow in the past 24 hours. I don't need him to call me for personal reasons, I now am waiting by my phone so I know he's okay, I'm worried sick. I'm such a douchebag. Fucking shit crap fuck.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Van Gogh Epiphany
It recently came to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother. I find myself staying at home more, drinking a fraction of what I used to, and indulging in very Martha-esque homemaker activities like baking cookies and folding things. I want to be this Nice Girl, but part of me is afraid that if I down double shots of Van Gogh Espresso, one of my favourite pastimes, the Nice Girl will be out the window and I will no longer be able to obtain the newly appointed man of my dreams. I am even saving my freshly-virginized body for him in case he decides to reciprocate my love for him. I think I have really embraced this whole Nice Girl 2.0 thing, but, at times, it does prove to be difficult and I become possessed by my not-so Nice Girl.
Generally, a night out for me consists of Stoli sodas, texting hot guys I want to sleep with, (including those who have magically morphed into the "hot" category after said Stoli sodas), and some kind of bar, lounge, club, or restaurant where I will ultimately use the process of elimination to hit on the most fuckable waiter, bartender, DJ, doorman, dishwasher, or janitor in the room. I wish I was one of those girls who could enjoy a single glass of 1982 Argentinian Malbec while rejuvenating in a hot bubble bath. Instead I'm the kind of girl who feels that having a single drink is a waste of calories, so I generally opt to drink so much alcohol that you wouldn't be able to pay me to properly pronounce "calories." So for the past few weeks it's been easier to just avoid the nectar of the Gods and stay out of trouble. I was bound to finally explode...tis' the fucking season. But last night wasn't my usual Sheen-style whooping. Instead, I had an epiphany.
After three glasses of wine and Van Goghs in the double digits, it occurred to me that I'm crazy. For the past two months every reason I had to believe that the man of my dreams was interested in me was based 100% on estrogen-charged assumptions. You know what I mean...us girls like to twist around everything you men say to cater to our undying egos that need to constantly believe that you're ultimately in love with us. Yes, all the "signs" are there, but has he actually said anything to justify my looking at wedding dresses and preparing floral arrangements? Fuck no. Here I am saving myself for a man who has yet to show any clear signs that he wants to see me naked. It's interesting that such a rational epiphany came after a bottle of vodka...I must be some kind of fucking genius when I'm functioning on 0 ccs of the shit.
So here I am it's a fresh day and a fresh mindset. Well actually I'm really hungover and feel like shit, but the mindset is still intact. Bravo. My vagina is back open for business.
Generally, a night out for me consists of Stoli sodas, texting hot guys I want to sleep with, (including those who have magically morphed into the "hot" category after said Stoli sodas), and some kind of bar, lounge, club, or restaurant where I will ultimately use the process of elimination to hit on the most fuckable waiter, bartender, DJ, doorman, dishwasher, or janitor in the room. I wish I was one of those girls who could enjoy a single glass of 1982 Argentinian Malbec while rejuvenating in a hot bubble bath. Instead I'm the kind of girl who feels that having a single drink is a waste of calories, so I generally opt to drink so much alcohol that you wouldn't be able to pay me to properly pronounce "calories." So for the past few weeks it's been easier to just avoid the nectar of the Gods and stay out of trouble. I was bound to finally explode...tis' the fucking season. But last night wasn't my usual Sheen-style whooping. Instead, I had an epiphany.
After three glasses of wine and Van Goghs in the double digits, it occurred to me that I'm crazy. For the past two months every reason I had to believe that the man of my dreams was interested in me was based 100% on estrogen-charged assumptions. You know what I mean...us girls like to twist around everything you men say to cater to our undying egos that need to constantly believe that you're ultimately in love with us. Yes, all the "signs" are there, but has he actually said anything to justify my looking at wedding dresses and preparing floral arrangements? Fuck no. Here I am saving myself for a man who has yet to show any clear signs that he wants to see me naked. It's interesting that such a rational epiphany came after a bottle of vodka...I must be some kind of fucking genius when I'm functioning on 0 ccs of the shit.
So here I am it's a fresh day and a fresh mindset. Well actually I'm really hungover and feel like shit, but the mindset is still intact. Bravo. My vagina is back open for business.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Ghosts from Neighbours Past
No, I am not on my deathbed. No, I have not been so wasted for the past 4 weeks that I haven't been able to type. The weirdest thing has happened...for the past month, I've been acting like a grown-up. Well, I'm assuming I am, I've never actually done this before. I go to the gym every day, I bake cookies, I build gingerbread houses, I change my apartment decor to match the season, and I keep my legs closed, you know...like a lady. In fact, it has recently come to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother, and I now find myself saving my virgin body for him in case it ever pans out. Can I call myself a virgin if I haven't had sex for a month? I think so. Is it possible that four weeks of being a Nice Girl have changed me forever? I also think so...
Since The Nice Girl Project 2.0 is going so swimmingly, I'm going to have to share with you something that happened to me about 3 years ago...not only is it an amazing story, but I have no new ones to share on account of my new-found Angelicism.
My apartment building is about 20 feet away from the next building in my complex. When I first moved in, I had noticed that my "neighbour" in the next building liked to sun tan regularly on his patio. He had a nice body and he was on his balcony frequently, so I definitely noticed him. A couple of months after I moved in, my sister and I were celebrating my birthday with champagne on my balcony, and my shirtless neighbour came outside to his. To be honest the details are fuzzy, but somehow we started hollering across balconies and somehow managed to have a flirtatious discussion at 1000 decibels, that I'm sure we shared with the rest of the complex. Meh. Anyhoo, at one point, he asked for my number and we stopped the madness. We chatted that night for about 20 minutes then I went and got hammered, as I do, for my birthday.
Over the next couple of weeks balcony neighbour Joe and I continued to chat on the phone, and finally after several conversations and a huge bottle of Zimbabwe's finest wine, I invited him over. About 5 minutes later, he knocked on my door. I opened it. HO-LY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
As soon as I opened the door I realized I knew Joe. I knew Joe really well. I knew Joe really, REALLY well, for one night in 2005. That's right...I had already fucked neighbour Joe. We stared at each other and both of our jaws hit the fresh, snap-together-laminate flooring. He came in, and we continued to drink until we lost all perception of how slutty we both are. We never hooked up again and remain friends to this day, how could you not, it's way too funny...and I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness ever since.
Since The Nice Girl Project 2.0 is going so swimmingly, I'm going to have to share with you something that happened to me about 3 years ago...not only is it an amazing story, but I have no new ones to share on account of my new-found Angelicism.
My apartment building is about 20 feet away from the next building in my complex. When I first moved in, I had noticed that my "neighbour" in the next building liked to sun tan regularly on his patio. He had a nice body and he was on his balcony frequently, so I definitely noticed him. A couple of months after I moved in, my sister and I were celebrating my birthday with champagne on my balcony, and my shirtless neighbour came outside to his. To be honest the details are fuzzy, but somehow we started hollering across balconies and somehow managed to have a flirtatious discussion at 1000 decibels, that I'm sure we shared with the rest of the complex. Meh. Anyhoo, at one point, he asked for my number and we stopped the madness. We chatted that night for about 20 minutes then I went and got hammered, as I do, for my birthday.
Over the next couple of weeks balcony neighbour Joe and I continued to chat on the phone, and finally after several conversations and a huge bottle of Zimbabwe's finest wine, I invited him over. About 5 minutes later, he knocked on my door. I opened it. HO-LY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
As soon as I opened the door I realized I knew Joe. I knew Joe really well. I knew Joe really, REALLY well, for one night in 2005. That's right...I had already fucked neighbour Joe. We stared at each other and both of our jaws hit the fresh, snap-together-laminate flooring. He came in, and we continued to drink until we lost all perception of how slutty we both are. We never hooked up again and remain friends to this day, how could you not, it's way too funny...and I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness ever since.
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