I care a lot about my looks...I don't think I've left my home without makeup in the past 15 years. The way I see it, I'm doing you the favour...Jesus Christ, I'm not the one looking at my face all day, you are, so you're fucking welcome. About two years ago, I realized that I had been punishing the general population for decades with my lacking upper lip. Such a pretty face, but no upper lip, there was only one clear solution: pay someone hundreds of dollars to stick needles in my face and make me look like Angelina Jolie. Done. For the past two years I've gotten my lips done repeatedly, and despite the less than impressed reaction from my friends who fell in love with me as the Lipless Wonder, most people appreciate the improvement.
Last weekend I went to get a minor touch-up, nothing serious, just a couple pricks here and there and I was on my way. However, this time, something strange happened. About an hour after I left my doctor's office, my entire bottom lip had turned blue and was cold. Huh. Now I've read a lot of books by doctors...well, one doctor, Dr. Suess, and if I've learned anything, it's that you shouldn't let stray cats in the house, and also, if any part of your body is cold and blue, it has likely lost circulation. Now, you'd think that this would alarm me, particularly because I have done the procedure about 10 times before and never ended up with a cold blue sausage for a lip, but it didn't scare me in the least, so I smacked myself in the face a few times trying to increase circulation to the area, and continued on with my day, where I had planned to go out of town to meet some friends.
I don't want to bore you with the details, let's fast forward to approximately 9pm that evening, where I am being discharged from the emergency department in my friend's hometown. I know you're worried, don't be, I'm fine, my ridiculous antics will carry on for many years to come. So there I am, my lip is now only partially blue, I have about 3 bruises on the lip area, and a massive bruise that encircles the bottom half of my mouth and reaches half way down my chin. In a nutshell, I look like a hooker that didn't pay her pimp. However, I felt the need to rejoice the fact that I was still alive, so I went along with my dinner plans with my friends.
My friends took me out to a Mexican place. I believe I was doing a shot of Cuervo's finest when I realized I still had my fucking hospital bracelet on. For fuck's sakes, how was I even served wearing that thing? Sheesh. Fucking bartenders, can't trust them to watch out for you in the least. Idiots. My friends had to work early so after dinner they dropped me off at my hotel. The only problem was, I wasn't quite done rejoicing yet. I had a drink at my hotel bar, (which I actually had no recollection of until I saw it on my bill at check-out), then I went to the only club I knew in the city. As I was waiting in line alone, three guys behind me started talking to me. Now this was something else. Not that I got hit on by three guys simultaneously, that happens on occasion, but the fact that three guys were hitting on a girl that looked like she'd just lost a fight in the Irish pub next door. They chatted me up for the next 20 minutes...they were soccer players in the MLS, one was from Peru, one from France, and my favourite was from Chile. They all had amazing accents so naturally, 20 minutes was all it took for me to go with them to a place that would actually let us in.
I spent the rest of the night with these guys all fighting over me, and every chance I got I made out with the Chilean. He was yummy. Around 2am I realized I STILL had my hospital bracelet on...oops, guess the aftermath of the tequila made me forget to take it off. Even though my international fan club didn't seem to mind, I thought it would be best to remove it before I ended up with my Chilean Sauseege, wearing nothing more than my hospital momento. I woke up the next morning wondering if they were insane and incredibly un-picky, or if I was fucking awesome. Naturally, I chose the latter. Still fucking got it.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Facial Surgery, Magnetic Beds and Chipotle Mayo
Well, I just had my first 41 year-old date. I can already tell this is going to be a problem, and not the fun kind of problem like running out of condoms or only having Pakistani Chardonnay in the house...the annoying ones like overdue bills and early morning meetings.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Classy Idiot Project
The elusive Stairs Man turned out to be married. Lovely. Stairs Man is actually the second guy in as many months that I've hooked up with, only to find out through various methods of stalking that the reason he's not calling is because he's at home with his wife, kids, and chlamydia. I'm losing hope in the human race, and my excitement for exploring men has plummeted. The two guys I've been with since I found out about Mrs. Stairs Man have been boring, even limp. It's like guys can sense my disgust for men in general and their dicks shrivel upon contact with my angry vagina.
Bachelor number one: the child. This was some random idiot I met at the casino and fucked for the mere fact that for months I had been saving my body for my friend's brother and that needed to end immediately. The guy was 21 and had this ego on him like he was the answer to my prayers. He was the answer to my dry spell, and was the perfect candidate, until he slept over and wouldn't leave, ugh. Unless I've given a guy some kind of CLEAR sign that I want to pretend we're married for the next 12 hours, I would appreciate it if they'd beat it. This rule especially applies to guys who aren't old enough to rent a car, since every time I look at them after we've done the deed, I start reassessing my life choices which greatly interrupts my ability to fall into a deep REM sleep. The next morning I made myself breakfast and didn't even feed him water. He still didn't leave. I would have offered him bus fare but to be honest I'd rather spend the $2 on a Cream Soda Slurpee. Finally I turned on The Young and the Restless and just stopped talking to him. He finally picked up on my subtle hint to get the fuck out of my apartment and left, but not without asking for my number. Really? Give me a break.
Bachelor number two: the bartender. Bartenders are always an easy target. I met this one when I was out for dinner with a friend. For no particular reason the manager started buying my girlfriend and I drinks and we hung out with the staff after they closed down. Using the process of elimination, I singled out the hottest guy in the group and proceeded to get him wasted. Mission accomplished. I took him home and a week later we met for Round 2. We should have left it at Round 1, since Round 2 was the cause of The Unfortunate Limp Dick Incident, and left me with a lowered sense of self-esteem and a serious case of blue clit. He insisted it was the condom's fault, but I have a zero-tolerance policy for banging bartenders without protection. I'd have less of a chance of contracting a disease if I licked the floor of an insulated lab at the Infectious Disease Control Centre.
I've had bad sex in my life, but with the addition of this married man drama, I've never felt so positive that I treat men like shit because that's what they are. I have been advised by my friends that it's simply the young guys that are losers, and that I need to skip a couple of decades and find myself a nice 40 year-old. I don't know how I feel about older men. Most of them could probably be the fathers of the guys I usually date. The number "40" instantly reminds me of old principals, bosses, and old man stench. But before I do something crazy like swear off sex or alcohol, I'll try and get over myself and see if I can focus my efforts on someone older than me. I guess this means I'll have to change my old habits. Instead of getting wasted, I'll get a mortgage. Instead of fucking random idiots, I'll fuck random intelligent people. I'll be a classy idiot. It's worth a shot...
Bachelor number one: the child. This was some random idiot I met at the casino and fucked for the mere fact that for months I had been saving my body for my friend's brother and that needed to end immediately. The guy was 21 and had this ego on him like he was the answer to my prayers. He was the answer to my dry spell, and was the perfect candidate, until he slept over and wouldn't leave, ugh. Unless I've given a guy some kind of CLEAR sign that I want to pretend we're married for the next 12 hours, I would appreciate it if they'd beat it. This rule especially applies to guys who aren't old enough to rent a car, since every time I look at them after we've done the deed, I start reassessing my life choices which greatly interrupts my ability to fall into a deep REM sleep. The next morning I made myself breakfast and didn't even feed him water. He still didn't leave. I would have offered him bus fare but to be honest I'd rather spend the $2 on a Cream Soda Slurpee. Finally I turned on The Young and the Restless and just stopped talking to him. He finally picked up on my subtle hint to get the fuck out of my apartment and left, but not without asking for my number. Really? Give me a break.
Bachelor number two: the bartender. Bartenders are always an easy target. I met this one when I was out for dinner with a friend. For no particular reason the manager started buying my girlfriend and I drinks and we hung out with the staff after they closed down. Using the process of elimination, I singled out the hottest guy in the group and proceeded to get him wasted. Mission accomplished. I took him home and a week later we met for Round 2. We should have left it at Round 1, since Round 2 was the cause of The Unfortunate Limp Dick Incident, and left me with a lowered sense of self-esteem and a serious case of blue clit. He insisted it was the condom's fault, but I have a zero-tolerance policy for banging bartenders without protection. I'd have less of a chance of contracting a disease if I licked the floor of an insulated lab at the Infectious Disease Control Centre.
I've had bad sex in my life, but with the addition of this married man drama, I've never felt so positive that I treat men like shit because that's what they are. I have been advised by my friends that it's simply the young guys that are losers, and that I need to skip a couple of decades and find myself a nice 40 year-old. I don't know how I feel about older men. Most of them could probably be the fathers of the guys I usually date. The number "40" instantly reminds me of old principals, bosses, and old man stench. But before I do something crazy like swear off sex or alcohol, I'll try and get over myself and see if I can focus my efforts on someone older than me. I guess this means I'll have to change my old habits. Instead of getting wasted, I'll get a mortgage. Instead of fucking random idiots, I'll fuck random intelligent people. I'll be a classy idiot. It's worth a shot...
Thursday, December 29, 2011
"Fucking shit crap fuck."
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Those Who Masturbate in Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones
Remember the DJ from a couple of months back? He sent me scandalous videos of himself which I used to have a sexual relationship with myself while I was out of town on business. Yes, that one. Well, we have actually remained friends ever since. It's kind of strange actually...we started the relationship with mutual masturbation, and to this day I've hung out with him several times, but have never even kissed the guy. So I assumed we were just friends and I was happy with that, particularly because I have pairs of socks older than him, and I'm more interested in finding a boyfriend than another fuck buddy. (Well, when I'm sober anyways.)
While I was away recently, the DJ texted me almost daily. By the end of my three-week trip, he was acting more and more like he liked me, you know...more than a friend. Just to confirm my intuition, he said that when I got back he wanted to come to my place and make me dinner. That's lovely. I said yes to that, but I knew I'd have to make sure he knows that this seriously can't go anywhere. I figured I'd tell him right after we had sex for dessert. Perfect.
So a couple of days after I got home he said he was super hungry and actually had to quickly talk to me about something, and asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. It seemed pretty casual so I agreed and we met near my place. He had a beer...I had 5 vodkas...he ate...I ate...finally, after my 6th vodka, he starts talking seriously. Okay, I'm listening. I knew what he was going to say anyways. He was going to find out if I had a problem with the age difference because he was starting to like me. The truth is, I didn't really know. I hadn't been thinking of him that way, so I would have to just go with the flow and see what happened. So he starts..."I just want you to know, that I will never date you." I'm actually surprised my eyeballs remained in their sockets since I don't think I have ever opened them so wide in my entire life as a result of severe shock and dismay. Was this fucking idiot for realsies? Where do I begin? During the rest of the one-sided conversation where he continued to drone on about all the reasons why he didn't like me, I actually remained relatively quiet, not due to my strength and self-control, but instead due to my loss of brain function in response to such a ludicrous turn of events. According to DJ I started acting "quiet" and he took me home
Like any normal human who has just been pre-dumped by a fetus that she didn't like in the first place, I went out and got wasted. I then called an old friend (a.k.a. the one-socked, best friend of my upstairs neighbour that I have fucked the shit out of on numerous occasions), and banged him into the wee hours. The next morning I had completely forgotten about the entire DJ event, so thank goodness he texted me to remind me...I woke up to a text from the DJ saying "I've deleted everything that has anything to do with you, contact info, pics, etc. and I'd appreciate it if you can do the same." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a text in my life. At the same time, I was hurt that after months of being friends, I was clearly so disposable...ouch. For sure, stand by Mr. Mixed-signal-hot-cold-DJ-fucking-freakazoid, while I get right on your request to delete you from my life. I wrote back "Consider yourself deleted...well, 99% of you anyways. Guys trying to be famous DJs shouldn't piss off girls that have videos of them jerking off." He attempted damage control for the next 30 minutes solid, but sadly this damaged bitch could not be controlled. I ended the madness with my final text "stop texting me and delete my number you stupid shitbag." That worked.
Copies of the video are available for FREE to anyone who requests it, and to those of you who don't request it, chances are, you 'll be getting it anyways.
While I was away recently, the DJ texted me almost daily. By the end of my three-week trip, he was acting more and more like he liked me, you know...more than a friend. Just to confirm my intuition, he said that when I got back he wanted to come to my place and make me dinner. That's lovely. I said yes to that, but I knew I'd have to make sure he knows that this seriously can't go anywhere. I figured I'd tell him right after we had sex for dessert. Perfect.
So a couple of days after I got home he said he was super hungry and actually had to quickly talk to me about something, and asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. It seemed pretty casual so I agreed and we met near my place. He had a beer...I had 5 vodkas...he ate...I ate...finally, after my 6th vodka, he starts talking seriously. Okay, I'm listening. I knew what he was going to say anyways. He was going to find out if I had a problem with the age difference because he was starting to like me. The truth is, I didn't really know. I hadn't been thinking of him that way, so I would have to just go with the flow and see what happened. So he starts..."I just want you to know, that I will never date you." I'm actually surprised my eyeballs remained in their sockets since I don't think I have ever opened them so wide in my entire life as a result of severe shock and dismay. Was this fucking idiot for realsies? Where do I begin? During the rest of the one-sided conversation where he continued to drone on about all the reasons why he didn't like me, I actually remained relatively quiet, not due to my strength and self-control, but instead due to my loss of brain function in response to such a ludicrous turn of events. According to DJ I started acting "quiet" and he took me home
Like any normal human who has just been pre-dumped by a fetus that she didn't like in the first place, I went out and got wasted. I then called an old friend (a.k.a. the one-socked, best friend of my upstairs neighbour that I have fucked the shit out of on numerous occasions), and banged him into the wee hours. The next morning I had completely forgotten about the entire DJ event, so thank goodness he texted me to remind me...I woke up to a text from the DJ saying "I've deleted everything that has anything to do with you, contact info, pics, etc. and I'd appreciate it if you can do the same." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a text in my life. At the same time, I was hurt that after months of being friends, I was clearly so disposable...ouch. For sure, stand by Mr. Mixed-signal-hot-cold-DJ-fucking-freakazoid, while I get right on your request to delete you from my life. I wrote back "Consider yourself deleted...well, 99% of you anyways. Guys trying to be famous DJs shouldn't piss off girls that have videos of them jerking off." He attempted damage control for the next 30 minutes solid, but sadly this damaged bitch could not be controlled. I ended the madness with my final text "stop texting me and delete my number you stupid shitbag." That worked.
Copies of the video are available for FREE to anyone who requests it, and to those of you who don't request it, chances are, you 'll be getting it anyways.
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