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.
No comments:
Post a Comment