We've all had hookups that we've regretted in the morning. You know what it's like.
You wake up, look to your left/right, then slowly recall that you drunkenly made out with / went down on / boned that friend / stranger / ex / illegal immigrant / ugly person in your bed.
Then, you wonder how you can get them out of your place as quickly and painlessly as possible.
So you wake them up and tell them you're totally late for some appointment.
You start to quickly get dressed as they do the same.
There's usually no conversation.
You both feel awkward.
Mere minutes pass but feel like hours.
Finally, you show them the door and hope that none of your roommates heard them leaving. There's no kiss good-bye. If you're lucky, there's no hug either (I HATE when they go in for the fucking morning after hug good-bye).
I think this experience is typical. Also, it's excruciatingly painful but somehow somewhat polite, right? You both realize it was a mistake, but no one says so. You just get your shit together and go.
Well, I recently slept over at someone's place and experienced a whole new way of being shown the door.
Yes, this is my real life, bitches. And for some reason, despite stories like this, I insist on waking up every morning to continue living it.
It was a Friday morning, and I awoke in someone else's bed. No surprise there. Kidding. Ha!
Don't worry. I actually knew this fellow quite well. He was kind of a good friend. Well, up until this moment. So let's call him Ex Friend.
Because Ex Friend was a good friend, I of course assumed that I'd be getting a ride home in the morning. The only problem was that Ex Friend's roommate's car was blocking his car in the garage.
So Ex Friend had to ask his sleeping roommate to move the car.
No big deal, right?
Except for the fact that Ex Friend asked me to GO WAIT IN THE LOBBY of the apartment complex where his roommate wouldn't see me while he woke up his roommate and walked down to the garage with him so that they could move their cars.
Please re-read that last sentence, if necessary. I understand that it's so unbelievable that it might require a second reading.
Fuck it. I'll just paste it again.
Ex Friend asked me to GO WAIT IN THE LOBBY of the apartment complex where his roommate wouldn't see me while he woke up his roommate and walked down to the garage with him so that they could move their cars.
FUCKING RIDICULOUS AND DEGRADING.
Why was I being treated like a dirty secret?! Why was I being smuggled out of his apartment like a 300-pound trannie prostitute?!?!
So what did I do?
I'm sure you expected someone like me to go ape shit on his ass, but I was so shocked and confused that I had no idea how to respond in the moment! I was afraid that if I reacted, I'd OVERREACT like a big psycho.
So I stupidly said nothing except "Thanks for the ride."
Needless to say, I no longer speak to Ex Friend.
Also, I know that you're super pissed off at me right now for continuing to hook up with assholes like this, but, in my defense, .... err... Fuck! Okay, I have no defense. I'm just a total dumbass. Gotta go!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Farewell, Wet Spell
Since I lost my virginity, I've spent 99% of my life NOT getting laid (by choice). Yes, believe it.
Due to living a life only slightly more sexual than your run of the mill nun, I can't really use the phrase "dry spell" the same way everyone else does. I HATE normal people with sex lives who refer to "dry spells" when they haven't been laid in a few weeks or months. Fuck them!
"Dry spell" when applied to my life would sound something like this:
Doesn't really work, does it?
So I guess what I REALLY have is the occasional "wet spell" - rare sex-filled weeks that are randomly dispersed among 1- to 3-year periods where I get no action at all.
Does that mean I'm allowed to say this?
Yeah, that sounds about right.
So how far and few between are my wet spells? Let's just say I have this conversation with my doctor several times a year:
Why am I bringing all of this up? Because I just wrapped up a recent wet spell by kicking another undeserving dude to the curb.
And since I NEVER meet anyone I want to hook up with (because I'm only capable of falling in love with assholes, apparently), this most certainly means I'm headed toward many sexless, masturbation-filled years.
I'm NOT looking forward to it, besides the substantial financial savings from no longer having to pay for condoms, birth control, and bikini waxes. Good-bye, sex. Hello, pussy hair and shoes!
Due to living a life only slightly more sexual than your run of the mill nun, I can't really use the phrase "dry spell" the same way everyone else does. I HATE normal people with sex lives who refer to "dry spells" when they haven't been laid in a few weeks or months. Fuck them!
"Dry spell" when applied to my life would sound something like this:
"Yeah, it totally sucks. I'm goin' through a little dry spell now. Haven't been laid in 3 years. Should be over any year now though."
Doesn't really work, does it?
So I guess what I REALLY have is the occasional "wet spell" - rare sex-filled weeks that are randomly dispersed among 1- to 3-year periods where I get no action at all.
Does that mean I'm allowed to say this?
"Yeah, things are awesome. Goin' through a little wet spell right now. Been bangin this hot dude for the last 6 weeks. Makes me come almost every time."
Yeah, that sounds about right.
So how far and few between are my wet spells? Let's just say I have this conversation with my doctor several times a year:
Asshole Doctor: Are you sexually active?
Me: No.
Asshole Doctor: No sex at all?
Me: No. None.
Asshole Doctor: Really? NO SEX?
Me: NO!
Asshole Doctor: Hmmm... Okay. Well, when was the last time you had sex?
Me: I can't remember. It was too long ago.
Asshole Doctor: 6 months?
Me: Hmm.... No, longer.
Asshole Doctor: 1 year?
Me: Hmm... No, longer.
Asshole Doctor: Really? Okay.
Me: Fuck you, doc. Fuck. You.
Why am I bringing all of this up? Because I just wrapped up a recent wet spell by kicking another undeserving dude to the curb.
And since I NEVER meet anyone I want to hook up with (because I'm only capable of falling in love with assholes, apparently), this most certainly means I'm headed toward many sexless, masturbation-filled years.
I'm NOT looking forward to it, besides the substantial financial savings from no longer having to pay for condoms, birth control, and bikini waxes. Good-bye, sex. Hello, pussy hair and shoes!
Friday, September 4, 2009
Who Wants A Little Sucky Sucky?
Ew! Get your mind out of the gutter, perv!
I'm talking about lollipops. Duh.
(No, IDIOTS. That picture is not a photo of me. You know I revel in my anonymity, despite the fact that it's holding me back from the fame I yearn for every waking and sleeping second of the day. But that whore IS sucking on a 24 karat lollipop. Only the best, baby! Too bad she's Asian. Oh how I LOATHE Asian girls / competition.)
In my expansive nightlife experience, I've found that lollipops serve as the ultimate I'm A Big Slut Prop (just in case the 5" heels, minidress, black eyeliner, and push-up bra aren't clear enough). I think it's almost impossible for a man to not get turned on when watching a girl work a lollipop.
Because of this noted phenomenon, I've filled my purse with blowpops on many occasions and licked them lasciviously just for the attention. I'll admit that I'm not very good at it because I'm more goofy than sexy, but the effort was there.
In a highly inebriated state during a recent night out, I may have taken this cute little sucky sucky bit too far.
It was Saturday night at around 1 AM. I was, of course, drunk off my ass and wearing next to nothing (my body has experienced no other state during that day and time since I turned 21). I was feeling energetic and decided it was absolutely necessary to begin dancing on a chair (yes, I'm THAT girl. You know you love me.).
Then, my friend handed me a lollipop.
Mmhmm. Just when you thought things couldn't get trashier.
I gleefully unwrapped this lollipop and started devouring it. Unfortunately, I was also in a very generous mood, so (this is where the story turns disgusting or perhaps I should say "even more disgusting" for some of you uptight prudes) I offered a suck to every cute boy who walked by.
It went kind of like this:
HOW FUCKING NASTY IS THAT?!?!
So how many licks does it take until you get to the center?
TOO FUCKING MANY.
I wish that fucking lollipop had melted away after the first boy so that I couldn't swap spit with a horde of randos.
And God knows what I thought was "cute" while in that condition. Gross. AND I was in THE MISSION, which I've found has the most unattractive nightlife scene in the city. Yuck!
Also, WHY would these boys put a stranger's lollipop in their mouths? CLEARLY, I was too drunk to know any better, so THEY should have responsibly and politely declined my generous offers to share! WTF?!?! Nastyyyyyyy!
I feel filthy. Filthier than when I hooverize an entire pizza while drunk. Filthier than when I go down on someone just to get the hookup over with. Filthier than when I masturbate to girl-on-girl porn with my curtains open. Filthier than when I lie to my readers about what I do in my spare time (Ha! You suckers have NO IDEA. Am I a big slut? Or am I a big prevaricator? Hmm....).
I BETTER NOT get oral herpes because of this. I mean, I always knew I'd contract oral herpes someday, but I at least hoped I'd get it as punishment for a super hot makeout session with a tall, dark, and handsome rando banker dude in a Bugatti. When you contract herpes like that, it's totally glam and clearly worth a lifetime of humiliating cold sores.
I'm talking about lollipops. Duh.
(No, IDIOTS. That picture is not a photo of me. You know I revel in my anonymity, despite the fact that it's holding me back from the fame I yearn for every waking and sleeping second of the day. But that whore IS sucking on a 24 karat lollipop. Only the best, baby! Too bad she's Asian. Oh how I LOATHE Asian girls / competition.)In my expansive nightlife experience, I've found that lollipops serve as the ultimate I'm A Big Slut Prop (just in case the 5" heels, minidress, black eyeliner, and push-up bra aren't clear enough). I think it's almost impossible for a man to not get turned on when watching a girl work a lollipop.
Because of this noted phenomenon, I've filled my purse with blowpops on many occasions and licked them lasciviously just for the attention. I'll admit that I'm not very good at it because I'm more goofy than sexy, but the effort was there.
In a highly inebriated state during a recent night out, I may have taken this cute little sucky sucky bit too far.
It was Saturday night at around 1 AM. I was, of course, drunk off my ass and wearing next to nothing (my body has experienced no other state during that day and time since I turned 21). I was feeling energetic and decided it was absolutely necessary to begin dancing on a chair (yes, I'm THAT girl. You know you love me.).
Then, my friend handed me a lollipop.
Mmhmm. Just when you thought things couldn't get trashier.
I gleefully unwrapped this lollipop and started devouring it. Unfortunately, I was also in a very generous mood, so (this is where the story turns disgusting or perhaps I should say "even more disgusting" for some of you uptight prudes) I offered a suck to every cute boy who walked by.
It went kind of like this:
"Hi!"
[I hold out lollipop to cute boy.]
[Cute boy puts it in his mouth and passes it back.]
[ I give him a flirty smile.]
[I place the lollipop back in mouth.]
[I wink.]
[I search for another cute boy.]
Repeat 10-20 times.
HOW FUCKING NASTY IS THAT?!?!
So how many licks does it take until you get to the center?
TOO FUCKING MANY.
I wish that fucking lollipop had melted away after the first boy so that I couldn't swap spit with a horde of randos.
And God knows what I thought was "cute" while in that condition. Gross. AND I was in THE MISSION, which I've found has the most unattractive nightlife scene in the city. Yuck!
Also, WHY would these boys put a stranger's lollipop in their mouths? CLEARLY, I was too drunk to know any better, so THEY should have responsibly and politely declined my generous offers to share! WTF?!?! Nastyyyyyyy!
I feel filthy. Filthier than when I hooverize an entire pizza while drunk. Filthier than when I go down on someone just to get the hookup over with. Filthier than when I masturbate to girl-on-girl porn with my curtains open. Filthier than when I lie to my readers about what I do in my spare time (Ha! You suckers have NO IDEA. Am I a big slut? Or am I a big prevaricator? Hmm....).
I BETTER NOT get oral herpes because of this. I mean, I always knew I'd contract oral herpes someday, but I at least hoped I'd get it as punishment for a super hot makeout session with a tall, dark, and handsome rando banker dude in a Bugatti. When you contract herpes like that, it's totally glam and clearly worth a lifetime of humiliating cold sores.
Monday, August 31, 2009
A Trip Down Booty Call Lane
I finally decided to enter the year 2009 by joining the iPhone cult, and I LOOOOOOOOVE it!
In the process of switching to shitty ass AT&T, I decided to get a brand spanking new phone number.
Changing your phone number is a big fat pain in the ass. So why did I decide to do it? First, I was sick of using an area code for a city nowhere near where I live because I'd constantly have to tell people, "No, I'm not in Orange County." Fucking annoying.
Second (and this is clearly the more important reason for the new number), I felt this would be a highly clean and efficient way to cut people out of my life. SNIP SNIP, motherfuckers! You're done!
I was eager to bid adieu to the following rejects:
- Men I've dumped
- Friends who have gotten fat
- Business contacts who call me way too often
- Friends who can't hold their alcohol
- Men I stupidly gave my number to while highly inebriated
- Friends who are in serious relationships and have therefore become completely worthless and unfun
I had a BLAST going through my phone book to decide which numbers to transfer. And my phone book was NOT short. I had NEVER before deleted a number from my phone because I'm horrified by the idea of an unknown number calling me (I will never pick up the phone for anyone not in my phone book).
So my phone had every phone number I've ever entered since my FRESHMAN YEAR in college.
In other words, my address book captured about a decade of booty call history!
I was CRACKING UP going down all the names in my phone book one-by-one. Taking this trip down booty call lane made me realize something: I've gotten a LOT of HOT ass in the past 10 years! WOW.
Some of the things that went through my mind:
But, of course, there was the occasional:
Doesn't this process sound SUPER FUN?! It was. It was truly invigorating and intoxicating. Every second of it. I highly recommend it.
And now my phone book has been cut in half. I feel so free knowing that the only people who can reach me are those whom I've hand selected. That's the way it should be.
Now how do I send a mass text to all these lucky people informing them of how honored they should feel? Is there an emoticon for "Today should be the happiest day of your life because I've decided to remain friends with you?"
In the process of switching to shitty ass AT&T, I decided to get a brand spanking new phone number.
Changing your phone number is a big fat pain in the ass. So why did I decide to do it? First, I was sick of using an area code for a city nowhere near where I live because I'd constantly have to tell people, "No, I'm not in Orange County." Fucking annoying.
Second (and this is clearly the more important reason for the new number), I felt this would be a highly clean and efficient way to cut people out of my life. SNIP SNIP, motherfuckers! You're done!
I was eager to bid adieu to the following rejects:
- Men I've dumped
- Friends who have gotten fat
- Business contacts who call me way too often
- Friends who can't hold their alcohol
- Men I stupidly gave my number to while highly inebriated
- Friends who are in serious relationships and have therefore become completely worthless and unfun
I had a BLAST going through my phone book to decide which numbers to transfer. And my phone book was NOT short. I had NEVER before deleted a number from my phone because I'm horrified by the idea of an unknown number calling me (I will never pick up the phone for anyone not in my phone book).
So my phone had every phone number I've ever entered since my FRESHMAN YEAR in college.
In other words, my address book captured about a decade of booty call history!
I was CRACKING UP going down all the names in my phone book one-by-one. Taking this trip down booty call lane made me realize something: I've gotten a LOT of HOT ass in the past 10 years! WOW.
Some of the things that went through my mind:
"Haha! I can't believe I hooked up with a co-worker!"
"Oooh! I miss lifeguards..."
"Holy shit. I lost my virginity to him. Or was it the other way around?"
But, of course, there was the occasional:
"Who the hell is this? Did I hook up with him? Yeah, probably..."
"I can't believe that asshole raped me."
"I don't think he really was 18. Good thing it happened in Mexico..."
Doesn't this process sound SUPER FUN?! It was. It was truly invigorating and intoxicating. Every second of it. I highly recommend it.
And now my phone book has been cut in half. I feel so free knowing that the only people who can reach me are those whom I've hand selected. That's the way it should be.
Now how do I send a mass text to all these lucky people informing them of how honored they should feel? Is there an emoticon for "Today should be the happiest day of your life because I've decided to remain friends with you?"
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
You're Reading the Words of a World Record Holder
Readers!! I have good news and bad news!!
Here's the good news: I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!
I wish I could have seen you fall off your desk chairs just now. Yes, rub your eyes and re-read that sentence. It still says the same thing - "I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!"
Booyah!
Finally. A man asked me to be his girlfriend. His words were uncreative but still music to my ears for they were words I've awaited my entire life: "Will you be my girlfriend?"
And then we cuddled and made out for hours as he told me things like "I'm all yours now" and "I want to be your boyfriend."
It was amazing.
"Is this love?" I thought to myself.
I savored 5 hours of this bliss.
But then...
...
...
...
... the alcohol wore off.
And here, readers, is where the bad news comes in.
Ready for it?
He sobered up, realized what he had just been saying, and then said, "I told you this before. I don't want to be in a relationship right now."
BAM!
New World Record: SHORTEST RELATIONSHIP EVER = 5 HOURS!!!
Bahahaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
How HILARIOUS is my life?!?!
People ask me if my stories are true, and I can now see why because even THIS ONE seems preposterous to me. I can't even believe this happened, and I fucking LIVED IT!
And so now I have to live with the ramifications of holding this title, and by this, I mean the many awkward conversations I'll have to endure in the future.
Example 1:
Example 2:
Example 3:
*sigh*
Like my life wasn't already filled with enough excruciatingly awkward moments!
But on the bright side, I can now tell people "Yes, I HAVE been in a relationship" and "Yes, I HAVE had a boyfriend before."
And that's PRETTY fucking sweet!!!
I think I'm going to roam around the street now, tap randos on the shoulder, and just share the good news: "Hey! Guess what? I've had a BOYFRIEND. I know. I'm totally cool, right?"
Woohooooo!
Here's the good news: I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!
I wish I could have seen you fall off your desk chairs just now. Yes, rub your eyes and re-read that sentence. It still says the same thing - "I can no longer bitch about the fact that I'm 22 years old (plus or minus 1 to 10 years) and have never had a boyfriend!!"
Booyah!
Finally. A man asked me to be his girlfriend. His words were uncreative but still music to my ears for they were words I've awaited my entire life: "Will you be my girlfriend?"
And then we cuddled and made out for hours as he told me things like "I'm all yours now" and "I want to be your boyfriend."
It was amazing.
"Is this love?" I thought to myself.
I savored 5 hours of this bliss.
But then...
...
...
...
... the alcohol wore off.
And here, readers, is where the bad news comes in.
Ready for it?
He sobered up, realized what he had just been saying, and then said, "I told you this before. I don't want to be in a relationship right now."
BAM!
New World Record: SHORTEST RELATIONSHIP EVER = 5 HOURS!!!
Bahahaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
How HILARIOUS is my life?!?!
People ask me if my stories are true, and I can now see why because even THIS ONE seems preposterous to me. I can't even believe this happened, and I fucking LIVED IT!
And so now I have to live with the ramifications of holding this title, and by this, I mean the many awkward conversations I'll have to endure in the future.
Example 1:
Someone: So when was your last long-term relationship?
Me: Depends on what you mean by long-term.
Someone: 6 or more months.
Me: What? 6 or more HOURS?
Someone: No. 6 or more MONTHS.
Me: Fuck! How about 5 or more hours.
Someone: What the fuck are you talking about?
Me: Shit. Nevermind. Well, I guess the answer is, 'NO, I've never been in a fancy shmancy LONG-TERM relationship' then, per your RIDICULOUS standards. Asshole. Why'd you have to rub it in?
Someone: What the hell is wrong with you?
Me: So so much...
Example 2:
Someone: When was the last time you were in a relationship?
Me: Oh. August 21st.
Someone: Awww. You remember the exact date it ended?
Me: Yeah, it was pretty rough.
Someone: I'm sorry. How long were you together?
Me: Since August 21st.
Someone: Oh no! You broke up on your 1-year anniversary?
Me: No. He dumped me after he sobered up and realized he had made a mistake.
Someone: Oh my god.
Me: Yeah, yeah. I know. NOW will you let me have that 7th vodka tonic? Thanks. Thought so.
Example 3:
Someone: How long was your longest relationship?
Me: 5 hours
Someone: Ha! You mean 5 months? Or 5 years?
Me: No, you piece of shit. I'm not a retard. 5 HOURS. As in 300 MINUTES. As in it ended more quickly than my Saturday afternoon naps.
Someone: Oh..... Wait. REALLY?
Me: Yes. Really.
Someone: Oh....
Me: Yep. I know. It still hurts.
Someone: That sucks.
Me: No. It FUCKING sucks.
*sigh*
Like my life wasn't already filled with enough excruciatingly awkward moments!
But on the bright side, I can now tell people "Yes, I HAVE been in a relationship" and "Yes, I HAVE had a boyfriend before."
And that's PRETTY fucking sweet!!!
I think I'm going to roam around the street now, tap randos on the shoulder, and just share the good news: "Hey! Guess what? I've had a BOYFRIEND. I know. I'm totally cool, right?"
Woohooooo!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
They Always Come Crawling Back
Believe it or not, I've been rejected before. But don't worry, rejection has been so infrequent that it hasn't hurt my self esteem at all. I would actually say it's been so rare that it has merely kept me grounded.
But there is a small group of losers out there who have rejected me. Let's call this band of idiots Not Even If You Begged.
The men of Not Even If You Begged share another thing besides sheer stupidity in common, and this is REGRET.
Hellssssssss yeah, assholes!
That's right. I've noticed a pattern lately that approximately 1 year after men dump me, they COME CRAWLING BACK.
It's so fucking insulting and pathetic.
And the amazing thing is how aggressive they are.
One guy had the nerve to come up to me while the dude I was with was in line for the bathroom. He then dissed the dude and proceeded to apologize to me, saying "I was so stupid for not dating you. I've realized since then how cool and fun you are. Would you ever want to hang out again?"
And my answer is always the same: "No. Never. You HAD your chance."
Muahahahaaaaaa. And it feels sooooooo damn good. I'd pick these moments over sex any day.
Another dude literally started STALKING me. He sent me text messages, emails, and voicemails. He then friended me on Facebook and tried IM-ing me. And every time he sees me in person, he tries to start a conversation with me.
And he gets the same answer as the rest of them: "No. Never. You HAD your chance."
Thank you, life. Thank you so so much. You are SO good to me.
I love thinking about what happened to these morons during the time between the dumping and begging. They probably dated some super hot but extremely dumb or generic girl, had awesome sex at first, got bored with her looks (because the appeal of someone's physical attractiveness ALWAYS wears off after a few months), then realized that they'd rather swallow glass than carry on a conversation with her.
How painful it must have been for them to realize that all that time, they could have instead been laughing at my jokes.
WHY did they not actually believe me when I screamed, "Do you REALLY think you'll find someone hotter, smarter, and funnier? You're fucking delusional. You're going to regret this! Go sew your wild oats, but I won't be here once you realize that banging a different stupid hot whore every weekend WILL get old! And FUCK YOU!"
Too bad. I was sweet enough to CLEARLY tell them what would happen, but I guess they wanted to learn their lessons the hard way.
And now I get to reject THEM.
Hahahaaaaaaaaaaa! I'm the happiest girl on earth.
But there is a small group of losers out there who have rejected me. Let's call this band of idiots Not Even If You Begged.
The men of Not Even If You Begged share another thing besides sheer stupidity in common, and this is REGRET.
Hellssssssss yeah, assholes!
That's right. I've noticed a pattern lately that approximately 1 year after men dump me, they COME CRAWLING BACK.
It's so fucking insulting and pathetic.
And the amazing thing is how aggressive they are.
One guy had the nerve to come up to me while the dude I was with was in line for the bathroom. He then dissed the dude and proceeded to apologize to me, saying "I was so stupid for not dating you. I've realized since then how cool and fun you are. Would you ever want to hang out again?"
And my answer is always the same: "No. Never. You HAD your chance."
Muahahahaaaaaa. And it feels sooooooo damn good. I'd pick these moments over sex any day.
Another dude literally started STALKING me. He sent me text messages, emails, and voicemails. He then friended me on Facebook and tried IM-ing me. And every time he sees me in person, he tries to start a conversation with me.
And he gets the same answer as the rest of them: "No. Never. You HAD your chance."
Thank you, life. Thank you so so much. You are SO good to me.
I love thinking about what happened to these morons during the time between the dumping and begging. They probably dated some super hot but extremely dumb or generic girl, had awesome sex at first, got bored with her looks (because the appeal of someone's physical attractiveness ALWAYS wears off after a few months), then realized that they'd rather swallow glass than carry on a conversation with her.
How painful it must have been for them to realize that all that time, they could have instead been laughing at my jokes.
WHY did they not actually believe me when I screamed, "Do you REALLY think you'll find someone hotter, smarter, and funnier? You're fucking delusional. You're going to regret this! Go sew your wild oats, but I won't be here once you realize that banging a different stupid hot whore every weekend WILL get old! And FUCK YOU!"
Too bad. I was sweet enough to CLEARLY tell them what would happen, but I guess they wanted to learn their lessons the hard way.
And now I get to reject THEM.
Hahahaaaaaaaaaaa! I'm the happiest girl on earth.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
WHAT Did You Just Call Me?!?!
No, someone did not call me a "bitch." Like that would be something eventful enough for me to blog about! That happens to me every day.
Like when I talk loudly on my cell phone on the otherwise silent bus.
Or when I indifferently sashay past homeless people as I carry a bag full of Whole Foods goodies.
Or when men approach me at a bar and I respond by saying, "Don't EVER touch me or speak to me again."
So no, this post is not about someone calling me a "bitch," "cunt," or "whore."
One of you fatass readers in Oklahoma City is about to hate me.
Here goes nothin.
I had brunch with a dude the other day, but I refused to eat anything because I wasn't hungry. He then insisted that I didn't need to try to lose weight because I was already "pretty." At the time, this irked me, but I didn't know why.
But it finally hit me this morning. I realized that I don't want to be described as a "pretty" girl. That would fucking suck because that's the way you describe attractive girls who have nothing better to offer. UGH.
And how many "pretty" / worthless (to me) girls are out there? Millions. TOO MANY, in fact. So many it annoys the shit out of me every day, everywhere I go.
WHY would I want to be known as being "pretty" when it's clearly not special and is borderline offensive?!?!
Instead, I've decided that I prefer to be described as being "FUNNY!" (But I will also accept "unbelievably hilarious," "incredibly witty," or "side-splittingly hysterical." Or perhaps a simple "most entertaining and comical girl on earth" will suffice.)
This would make me truly special. Think about it. How many "funny" GIRLS do you personally know? I bet you the answer is less than 3. And you can't count me because, although you know my darkest secrets, we've never actually met face-to-face.
And in case it's not clear, "funny" means being able to tell a joke, which is different from a stupid ho who laughs easily.
I've decided that the next man who tells me he fell for me because I'm "funny" is getting a multi-hour blowjob, a threesome, and anal!
Like when I talk loudly on my cell phone on the otherwise silent bus.
Or when I indifferently sashay past homeless people as I carry a bag full of Whole Foods goodies.
Or when men approach me at a bar and I respond by saying, "Don't EVER touch me or speak to me again."
So no, this post is not about someone calling me a "bitch," "cunt," or "whore."
One of you fatass readers in Oklahoma City is about to hate me.
Here goes nothin.
I had brunch with a dude the other day, but I refused to eat anything because I wasn't hungry. He then insisted that I didn't need to try to lose weight because I was already "pretty." At the time, this irked me, but I didn't know why.
But it finally hit me this morning. I realized that I don't want to be described as a "pretty" girl. That would fucking suck because that's the way you describe attractive girls who have nothing better to offer. UGH.
And how many "pretty" / worthless (to me) girls are out there? Millions. TOO MANY, in fact. So many it annoys the shit out of me every day, everywhere I go.
WHY would I want to be known as being "pretty" when it's clearly not special and is borderline offensive?!?!
Instead, I've decided that I prefer to be described as being "FUNNY!" (But I will also accept "unbelievably hilarious," "incredibly witty," or "side-splittingly hysterical." Or perhaps a simple "most entertaining and comical girl on earth" will suffice.)
This would make me truly special. Think about it. How many "funny" GIRLS do you personally know? I bet you the answer is less than 3. And you can't count me because, although you know my darkest secrets, we've never actually met face-to-face.
And in case it's not clear, "funny" means being able to tell a joke, which is different from a stupid ho who laughs easily.
I've decided that the next man who tells me he fell for me because I'm "funny" is getting a multi-hour blowjob, a threesome, and anal!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Drunkonomics
When I'm sober, I enjoy claiming I'm a genius. And when I'm drunk, I actually start to believe it.
This is a horrible thing because I'm loudest, cockiest, AND most retarded when I'm drunk.
My latest drunken obsession is coming home wasted and doodling. But since I'm convinced I'm a genius, I can't just draw random shit like flowers and hearts. That's for amateurs and pussies. I instead insist on trying to make sense of my love life using X-Y graphs. I find that they convey so much meaning with so little effort on my part.
I'm going to start scanning and posting these graphs, and you'll be able to find them under the label "Drunkonomics."
Below is one of my recent masterpieces, which I created after I came home feeling especially rejected and bitter one night. I was wondering how I, as an outlier of hotness and awesomeness, could still be single at the moment.
For those of you who are too stupid to understand that graph, allow me to enlighten you.
There are a few important things to note. First, the line you see there represents the supply of women. Notice the negative relationship between hotness and awesomeness. We all know that this relationship is painful but true. The girls who are most amazing to look at are also the ones who should never talk. Ever. And the girls who are most fun to hang out with are the ones who pig out on Cheetos, wear comfortable clothing, and have mom haircuts.
This relationship sucks ass. But fortunately, there are outliers who lie both above and below this supply curve. I've tossed in some examples to help you understand what this means.
But let's focus on me as represented by the gigantic dot labeled "me!"
Notice how humble I am in admitting that a fairly large proportion of women are hotter than I am. I would say approximately 10-15% of the female population is more bangable than I (but if we counted sense of style, this number would decrease to 0.01%).
However, LOOK at how much disproportional awesomeness you're getting for my given level of hotness. There's really only 1 woman in the world more awesome than I am, and that's Angelina Jolie. That's pretty fucking awesome. That's an awesomeness surplus that should make any man cream his pants to get with me.
So if this is where I stand in relation to other women, WHY am I writing this hilarious, incredibly insightful blog post to a bunch of randos instead of getting my box munched by a grateful man who's never felt luckier in his life?!?!
COME ON, fellas! This box won't eat itself! Get ON IT.
Hmmm... Perhaps I need a Z axis for "delusional?"
Nahhhhhh! That graph is TOTALLY accurate.
This is a horrible thing because I'm loudest, cockiest, AND most retarded when I'm drunk.
My latest drunken obsession is coming home wasted and doodling. But since I'm convinced I'm a genius, I can't just draw random shit like flowers and hearts. That's for amateurs and pussies. I instead insist on trying to make sense of my love life using X-Y graphs. I find that they convey so much meaning with so little effort on my part.
I'm going to start scanning and posting these graphs, and you'll be able to find them under the label "Drunkonomics."
Below is one of my recent masterpieces, which I created after I came home feeling especially rejected and bitter one night. I was wondering how I, as an outlier of hotness and awesomeness, could still be single at the moment.
For those of you who are too stupid to understand that graph, allow me to enlighten you.
There are a few important things to note. First, the line you see there represents the supply of women. Notice the negative relationship between hotness and awesomeness. We all know that this relationship is painful but true. The girls who are most amazing to look at are also the ones who should never talk. Ever. And the girls who are most fun to hang out with are the ones who pig out on Cheetos, wear comfortable clothing, and have mom haircuts.
This relationship sucks ass. But fortunately, there are outliers who lie both above and below this supply curve. I've tossed in some examples to help you understand what this means.
But let's focus on me as represented by the gigantic dot labeled "me!"
Notice how humble I am in admitting that a fairly large proportion of women are hotter than I am. I would say approximately 10-15% of the female population is more bangable than I (but if we counted sense of style, this number would decrease to 0.01%).
However, LOOK at how much disproportional awesomeness you're getting for my given level of hotness. There's really only 1 woman in the world more awesome than I am, and that's Angelina Jolie. That's pretty fucking awesome. That's an awesomeness surplus that should make any man cream his pants to get with me.
So if this is where I stand in relation to other women, WHY am I writing this hilarious, incredibly insightful blog post to a bunch of randos instead of getting my box munched by a grateful man who's never felt luckier in his life?!?!
COME ON, fellas! This box won't eat itself! Get ON IT.
Hmmm... Perhaps I need a Z axis for "delusional?"
Nahhhhhh! That graph is TOTALLY accurate.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Happy Motherfucking Birthday
Apparently, I'm more BORING than I realized.
My birthday recently passed. Let's call it my ... oh I dunno ... 22nd birthday. My 22nd birthday recently passed, and I decided to spoil the crap out of myself that day by giving myself whatever I wanted all day long.
So in contrast to the 364 other days of the year when I live in a constant state of deprivation, I pigged out and got wasted.
Okay, so maybe I get wasted every day, but I totally don't eat delicious food.
So what did I consume to celebrate?
- My first chocolate chip cookie in YEARS
- Chicken tikka masala
- Ranch-flavored Wheat Thins
- Pizza
- Cheese platter
- Fruit tart a la mode
- Donuts dipped in chocolate sauce
It was a FINE day. One of the best eating days of my life. Near perfect.
But I wasn't content.
By around 10 PM, after I was down 1/2 a bottle of red wine, I decided that I needed one more thing to complete my day: BIRTHDAY BOOTY.
YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
I was ready to work off the calories within my distended belly by spending the night riding some cock.
So I did what any respectable girl does when she wants play. I booty texted!
WTF? WHY was he asking? What ELSE could I possibly want at 10 PM on my motherfucking birthday?!
No, readers. Those are not typos up there with missing text. THERE WAS NO FUCKING RESPONSE!!!
Until 9 AM this morning.
BAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
OH
MY
FUCKING
GOD
Clearly, I am the least desirable woman on earth.
WHAT MAN gets a booty text and FALLS ASLEEP AT 10 PM?!?!
I was offended. And for a moment, I was able to empathize with a man I once hooked up with whose dick I fell asleep on. But that was different. I was DRUNK!
Back to me. How shitty is what happened?! I practically rang a dinner bell, spread my legs, and put a flare between them and got NO RESPONSE!
Humiliating. Devastating. Life-scarring. And on my BIRTHDAAAAAAY.
I hate my life. I hate it! I hate it!
My birthday recently passed. Let's call it my ... oh I dunno ... 22nd birthday. My 22nd birthday recently passed, and I decided to spoil the crap out of myself that day by giving myself whatever I wanted all day long.
So in contrast to the 364 other days of the year when I live in a constant state of deprivation, I pigged out and got wasted.
Okay, so maybe I get wasted every day, but I totally don't eat delicious food.
So what did I consume to celebrate?
- My first chocolate chip cookie in YEARS
- Chicken tikka masala
- Ranch-flavored Wheat Thins
- Pizza
- Cheese platter
- Fruit tart a la mode
- Donuts dipped in chocolate sauce
It was a FINE day. One of the best eating days of my life. Near perfect.
But I wasn't content.
By around 10 PM, after I was down 1/2 a bottle of red wine, I decided that I needed one more thing to complete my day: BIRTHDAY BOOTY.
YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
I was ready to work off the calories within my distended belly by spending the night riding some cock.
So I did what any respectable girl does when she wants play. I booty texted!
My first message: "Want to give me a birthday gift?"
His response: "What would you like for your birthday?"
WTF? WHY was he asking? What ELSE could I possibly want at 10 PM on my motherfucking birthday?!
My response: "You have 2 hours to deliver!"
His response: "Ok! I'll think about it! :)"
My response: "So what did you come up with?"
His response:
His response:
His response:
No, readers. Those are not typos up there with missing text. THERE WAS NO FUCKING RESPONSE!!!
Until 9 AM this morning.
When I received this response: "I was concentrating so hard I fell asleep!"
BAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
OH
MY
FUCKING
GOD
Clearly, I am the least desirable woman on earth.
WHAT MAN gets a booty text and FALLS ASLEEP AT 10 PM?!?!
I was offended. And for a moment, I was able to empathize with a man I once hooked up with whose dick I fell asleep on. But that was different. I was DRUNK!
Back to me. How shitty is what happened?! I practically rang a dinner bell, spread my legs, and put a flare between them and got NO RESPONSE!
Humiliating. Devastating. Life-scarring. And on my BIRTHDAAAAAAY.
I hate my life. I hate it! I hate it!
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Value of a Dollar
Have I ever told you that I'm an Economist? If so, I was lying. But I do enjoy thinking about the economics related to decision-making and consumption.
For example, some days after work, I want to get home right away, so I ask myself, "Should I spend $15 on a cab ride home?" Then, I think about the opportunity cost of that $15. Once I recall that $15 could buy me a Grey Goose vodka tonic, I conclude that $15 for a cab ride is SO not worth it!
But that was in the past. I no longer consider opportunity cost in terms of foregone alcohol consumption.
I now have something better and more practical. Something that everyone in the world can understand and appreciate the value of.
Nobel Prize in Economics, here I come. I have discovered the most efficient way to measure the value of a dollar and therefore truly understand the opportunity cost of any purchase.
Here is my solution: The value of a dollar should be measured in terms of what it can get you at Spearmint Rhino.
Eureka, motherfuckas!
Yes, I'm talking about the strip club, where, for 1 measly dollar, I can have a flawless stripper with no body fat, big fake sallies, and a round rump:
Also, WHY THE FUCK have I ever tipped any other service personnel?!?
I'm no longer tipping my bartenders. And if they try to give me shit, I'm going to say, "Ummm... I'm sorry, did I miss it when you showed me your coochie? What? You DIDN'T show me your coochie? Oh. What about your tits? Did you whip those out? What? Oh. You didn't show me your tits? Okay, well can I play with them for a little bit? What? No? Wait. WHY are you asking me for a dollar then? Because that's what I can get for that dollar, bitch! How are you gonna to top that?!?!"
Our economy will finally achieve maximum efficiency. Dollars will now shift from deadbeats like pizza delivery boys, waitresses, and cab drivers to the hardest working members of our society: strippers - women who are willing to EARN those dollars. Thank you, strippers, for teaching the rest of us what hard work really is.
And to give back, I'm going to take my $1 million in Nobel Prize money and make it rain on them hos.
For example, some days after work, I want to get home right away, so I ask myself, "Should I spend $15 on a cab ride home?" Then, I think about the opportunity cost of that $15. Once I recall that $15 could buy me a Grey Goose vodka tonic, I conclude that $15 for a cab ride is SO not worth it!
But that was in the past. I no longer consider opportunity cost in terms of foregone alcohol consumption.
I now have something better and more practical. Something that everyone in the world can understand and appreciate the value of.
Nobel Prize in Economics, here I come. I have discovered the most efficient way to measure the value of a dollar and therefore truly understand the opportunity cost of any purchase.
Here is my solution: The value of a dollar should be measured in terms of what it can get you at Spearmint Rhino.
Eureka, motherfuckas!
Yes, I'm talking about the strip club, where, for 1 measly dollar, I can have a flawless stripper with no body fat, big fake sallies, and a round rump:
- give me a titty carwash,
- show me her vagina,
- fondle my breasts,
- balance dollar bills on her nipples,
- clap her feet together,
- do a helicopter,
- spit on my friend,
- rub her ass on my face, or
- DO ANYTHING ELSE my filthy heart desires on command.
Also, WHY THE FUCK have I ever tipped any other service personnel?!?
I'm no longer tipping my bartenders. And if they try to give me shit, I'm going to say, "Ummm... I'm sorry, did I miss it when you showed me your coochie? What? You DIDN'T show me your coochie? Oh. What about your tits? Did you whip those out? What? Oh. You didn't show me your tits? Okay, well can I play with them for a little bit? What? No? Wait. WHY are you asking me for a dollar then? Because that's what I can get for that dollar, bitch! How are you gonna to top that?!?!"
Our economy will finally achieve maximum efficiency. Dollars will now shift from deadbeats like pizza delivery boys, waitresses, and cab drivers to the hardest working members of our society: strippers - women who are willing to EARN those dollars. Thank you, strippers, for teaching the rest of us what hard work really is.
And to give back, I'm going to take my $1 million in Nobel Prize money and make it rain on them hos.
Friday, August 7, 2009
I'm Very Sorry But Very Thin
I have almost no readers, but I want you to know that I appreciate each and every one of you. Maybe one day, I'll book a table for 4 somewhere nice, and I'll buy you all dinner.
So when I received a complaint from a reader the other day about my lack of posts during the past week, I genuinely felt bad. I know what it's like to need something so badly that you can't live without it.
For me, those things are Grey Goose, thin crust pizza, and attention.
For you, they are MY WORDS.
So allow me to apologize for not posting as frequently as you need in order to get through your week.
Also, I have an excuse! And it's a damn good one.
I've been hungry.
No, not just hungry.
STARVING. FUCKING STARVING.
And I know you're used to me bitching about starving for sex, but I'm actually going to keep it clean today and clarify that I'm referring to actual normal FOOD. You know, like sandwiches and shit.
But don't worry about me. I'm not starving because I can't afford food or haven't had time to eat. As if! I'm starving because I've consumed no carbs, fruit, dairy, or salt for over a week. Nothin but lean protein and green veggies, baby! Bow down to my discipline.
And holy shit I've never looked better.
Also, holy shit I've never felt weaker.
It really makes you appreciate the "effortless" daily tasks that you once took for granted. I used to not think twice about shampooing my hair, but this morning, I had to take THREE breaks because I was too tired to scrub my scalp any longer. And don't even get me started on how long it took me to get dressed when I kept falling over. I had to give up on pants.
Why this crash diet? Well, I've been starving myself for the past 2 weeks to get bikini ready for my birthday party!!! Woohooo! I have an ADORABLE sailor bikini just waiting to overexpose my malnourished, overexercised body!
And an unfortunate byproduct of this starvation has been my inability to write because - let me just tell you - it's fucking hard to be a clever wordsmith when you're constantly blacking out and your hands shake so much you can't even type.
So that's my excuse! BUT, fortunately for you, I'll be back to my normal diet on Sunday! Which means I'll be healthy, feisty, and chatty once again. I foresee tubs of green curry fried rice and many many posts on my schedule next week.
Peace out, bitches! Time for me to go celebrate myself and let my friends shower me with the affection I deserve!
So when I received a complaint from a reader the other day about my lack of posts during the past week, I genuinely felt bad. I know what it's like to need something so badly that you can't live without it.
For me, those things are Grey Goose, thin crust pizza, and attention.
For you, they are MY WORDS.
So allow me to apologize for not posting as frequently as you need in order to get through your week.
Also, I have an excuse! And it's a damn good one.
I've been hungry.
No, not just hungry.
STARVING. FUCKING STARVING.
And I know you're used to me bitching about starving for sex, but I'm actually going to keep it clean today and clarify that I'm referring to actual normal FOOD. You know, like sandwiches and shit.
But don't worry about me. I'm not starving because I can't afford food or haven't had time to eat. As if! I'm starving because I've consumed no carbs, fruit, dairy, or salt for over a week. Nothin but lean protein and green veggies, baby! Bow down to my discipline.
And holy shit I've never looked better.
Also, holy shit I've never felt weaker.
It really makes you appreciate the "effortless" daily tasks that you once took for granted. I used to not think twice about shampooing my hair, but this morning, I had to take THREE breaks because I was too tired to scrub my scalp any longer. And don't even get me started on how long it took me to get dressed when I kept falling over. I had to give up on pants.
Why this crash diet? Well, I've been starving myself for the past 2 weeks to get bikini ready for my birthday party!!! Woohooo! I have an ADORABLE sailor bikini just waiting to overexpose my malnourished, overexercised body!
And an unfortunate byproduct of this starvation has been my inability to write because - let me just tell you - it's fucking hard to be a clever wordsmith when you're constantly blacking out and your hands shake so much you can't even type.
So that's my excuse! BUT, fortunately for you, I'll be back to my normal diet on Sunday! Which means I'll be healthy, feisty, and chatty once again. I foresee tubs of green curry fried rice and many many posts on my schedule next week.
Peace out, bitches! Time for me to go celebrate myself and let my friends shower me with the affection I deserve!
Girl, He Nasty!
Mocking the men I date - like the basic AA-operated vibrator I bought when I was 19 years old - simply cannot satisfy me any longer. I want to mock MORE MEN. Specifically, I want to mock the atrocious men who my friends hook up with.
But apparently I can't. At least not if I follow The Girl Code, which involves not being allowed to talk shit about your girlfriends' hookups and instead constantly lying to boost their self-esteem, despite the fact that it will ALWAYS be low.
Whenever a man hooks up with a totally butt ugly ho, his friends TOTALLY get to call him out on it!
They say stuff like...
Meanwhile, I have to witness unsavory shit go down and bite my tongue.
But perhaps I'll just start breaking down barriers and doing it anyway. Clearly, I don't follow any other social norms, so why bother in this one instance?
Also, I think that my girlfriends and I would both benefit from my vicious honesty. They would be less likely to hook up with FUGs (Fucking Ugly Guys) for fear of my mockery. And I would get to laugh in their pathetic faces.
Sounds like a win-win to me!
But first I need to garner more ho-y girlfriends who actually bang losers. So far I have 1. Unless I can't count myself, in which case, I have 0.
But apparently I can't. At least not if I follow The Girl Code, which involves not being allowed to talk shit about your girlfriends' hookups and instead constantly lying to boost their self-esteem, despite the fact that it will ALWAYS be low.
"Ohhhh. You hooked up with Jake? He was REALLY nice. I'm so happy for you! You totally deserve the best, and you should NEVER lower your standards."And this is YET ANOTHER reason (reason #28,942,322) why I wish I were a man.
Whenever a man hooks up with a totally butt ugly ho, his friends TOTALLY get to call him out on it!
They say stuff like...
"Ew! I can't believe you made out with Jenny! She's so gross!"And I FUCKING LOVE IT!
"What? You fucked that FAT CHICK last night?! Naaaaasty!"
Meanwhile, I have to witness unsavory shit go down and bite my tongue.
But perhaps I'll just start breaking down barriers and doing it anyway. Clearly, I don't follow any other social norms, so why bother in this one instance?
Also, I think that my girlfriends and I would both benefit from my vicious honesty. They would be less likely to hook up with FUGs (Fucking Ugly Guys) for fear of my mockery. And I would get to laugh in their pathetic faces.
Sounds like a win-win to me!
"Ew! He was such a creepy repulsive midget. I can't believe you fucked him! I'd rather shove a raw spare rib up my cooch and then eat it. Bahahaha! You're SO stupid. God. Get some fucking standards, hobag!"Yep. I feel a trend starting. And the world will be a more fun place as a result. I hope my mom realizes she conceived such an influential trail blazer.
But first I need to garner more ho-y girlfriends who actually bang losers. So far I have 1. Unless I can't count myself, in which case, I have 0.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
What Puking? I Don't Hear Anything
I know you guys all think I'm a big slut who bangs a new man every week. Unless you're actually able to count and read actively, which means you've realized that what I actually enjoy is fucking WITH men, not fucking men.
And when I say I love fucking WITH men, this means I love mocking the shit out of them, making out with them, then sending their pathetic blue-balled asses home so I can get my obligatory 9 hours of sleep. This is actually how I would define a hook-up. It's really not about sex or blowjobs. It's more about me having all the power for a few hours until I get too sleepy to enjoy wielding it any longer.
So yeah, I can get a little bossy in bed because I know exactly what I want. It's quite simple. I want us to get naked, makeout, and grope until I get bored.
And I've never been unsuccessful at getting this from any of my targets.
Until a few weeks ago. That fucker! Let's call him Wisconsin. I can't remember if that's where he's actually from, but I have this vague recollection of a thick Midwestern accent, so that's what I'm going to call him.
I met Wisconsin through a friend, and I was warned beforehand that (1) he was shy and (2) he would probably be into my "style." Wisconsin met up with my friends and me at a bar, and he looked pretty fucking cute in the dark. I was at least 4 sugar-free red bull vodkas deep at that point, so I was ready to attack.
After a night of dancing and flirting, I grabbed Wisconsin and my girlfriend to head home. I was staying at my girlfriend's place while I was in town visiting for a little mini vaca. Let's call this girlfriend Drank Too Much. She's not an alchy like me, but on this one night, she definitely drank too much.
The three of us headed home in the cab, and the cab driver stopped at Drank Too Much's place. Drank Too Much paid the cab driver and said, "Okay, this is the first stop. He needs you to take him home next," as she motioned toward Wisconsin.
Wisconsin and I both look surprised and horrified because it was CLEAR - though unstated - that he was coming home with me.
So I actually had to put into words something I've never actually uttered prior to a hook-up and tell the cab driver, "No, he's coming home with me."
I felt so dirty. At that point, everyone in the car knew what was going to happen.
And Drank Too Much finally realized it, too, as evidenced by her very loud "Ohhhhhhhhhh! I'm sorry! Ohhhhhhhh!" during her moment of recognition.
So we all went up to Drank Too Much's pad, and Drank Too Much made us some pop tarts before heading to the bathroom.
Finally, Wisconsin and I were alone in the living room. I pushed him onto the inflatable mattress (super hot, right?) and started making out with him. He was a surprisingly good kisser for someone so shy. I was TOTALLY into it. Soft lips. Good at mixing things up. Responded well to my gentle teasing and nibbling.
All of a sudden, from the bathroom, we both heard an unbelievably loud "Bluuuuuuuuugh! Bluuuuuuuuuugh!"
Drank Too Much was puking. Very very loudly. These were not cute little girly bulemic pukes that one would hear in the stalls of a sorority house bathroom. These were loud ass, bellowing lumberjack heave-hos that made it sound like she was fighting against a rabid ferret trying to scurry up her throat.
"Is she okay?" Wisconsin asked me, clearly distracted by the vomit soundtrack in the background.
"What? Her? Oh she's fine! I'll go check on her. Hold on."
Fuuuuuuuck. I ran into the bathroom and asked Drank Too Much if she was okay.
"I'm fine!" she said. "Don't worry about me!"
I quickly surveyed the scene. She seemed lucid. She didn't have puke in her hair. She had properly vomited into the toilet. She had enough strength to hold herself up against the toilet seat. Check. Check. Check. "She's good to go!" I concluded.
I returned to Wisconsin and assured him that Drank Too Much was fine. We continued making out.
After about an hour of making out, I realized that both of us were still FULLY CLOTHED. This was totally unacceptable, so I took off his shirt.
I waited for him to do the same to me.
And waited.
And made out some more.
And waited.
Another thirty minutes passed.
At this point, I was like WTF?!?! The sun was about to rise, and I still didn't even get to feel his dick yet! And why the HELL was my dress still on?!?!
So I asked him, "Umm... wow. You like to move slowly, don't you?"
He was super shy and said that he always moves slowly and that he was having fun just making out.
UGH. God damnit! I was annoyed. I wanted to shout at him, "Your fucking mommy isn't here, so forget everything she told you about respecting women and start sucking my nipple! If you need to pretend it's your mommy's, FINE! Suck it like you did until you were 7. Just GET TO WORK."
But I kept my mouth shut. It's not like I was TOTALLY miserable. I didn't mind just making out, and he WAS a really good kisser, but I didn't need a man's rough jeans rubbing up against my soft legs all night. And I wanted to feel how big his dick was. Obvi.
Then I started wondering whether I was making out with a gay. I mean, what man would NOT want to take off my dress? There's a bounty of womanly goodness under there just waiting to be groped.
Disappointingly, we made out nearly fully clothed until sunrise.
He asked me what I was doing the next night, and I was like "Uhhhh.... Really busy. Every last minute is booked. But I had fun! See ya!"
I closed that door like I was slamming it on the face of a boy I caught trying on my thongs.
Like I was going to waste another vaca night on a Midwestern prude boy! No one robs me of Naked Time. NO ONE. I didn't spend $85 waxing my pussy before that trip for nothin! Shieeeet.
But if I ever go back to that city, I'll probably send Wisconsin a little booty text just to see how he responds. "So. Have you balls dropped yet? :)" I think he would like that. Don't you?
And when I say I love fucking WITH men, this means I love mocking the shit out of them, making out with them, then sending their pathetic blue-balled asses home so I can get my obligatory 9 hours of sleep. This is actually how I would define a hook-up. It's really not about sex or blowjobs. It's more about me having all the power for a few hours until I get too sleepy to enjoy wielding it any longer.
So yeah, I can get a little bossy in bed because I know exactly what I want. It's quite simple. I want us to get naked, makeout, and grope until I get bored.
And I've never been unsuccessful at getting this from any of my targets.
Until a few weeks ago. That fucker! Let's call him Wisconsin. I can't remember if that's where he's actually from, but I have this vague recollection of a thick Midwestern accent, so that's what I'm going to call him.
I met Wisconsin through a friend, and I was warned beforehand that (1) he was shy and (2) he would probably be into my "style." Wisconsin met up with my friends and me at a bar, and he looked pretty fucking cute in the dark. I was at least 4 sugar-free red bull vodkas deep at that point, so I was ready to attack.
After a night of dancing and flirting, I grabbed Wisconsin and my girlfriend to head home. I was staying at my girlfriend's place while I was in town visiting for a little mini vaca. Let's call this girlfriend Drank Too Much. She's not an alchy like me, but on this one night, she definitely drank too much.
The three of us headed home in the cab, and the cab driver stopped at Drank Too Much's place. Drank Too Much paid the cab driver and said, "Okay, this is the first stop. He needs you to take him home next," as she motioned toward Wisconsin.
Wisconsin and I both look surprised and horrified because it was CLEAR - though unstated - that he was coming home with me.
So I actually had to put into words something I've never actually uttered prior to a hook-up and tell the cab driver, "No, he's coming home with me."
I felt so dirty. At that point, everyone in the car knew what was going to happen.
And Drank Too Much finally realized it, too, as evidenced by her very loud "Ohhhhhhhhhh! I'm sorry! Ohhhhhhhh!" during her moment of recognition.
So we all went up to Drank Too Much's pad, and Drank Too Much made us some pop tarts before heading to the bathroom.
Finally, Wisconsin and I were alone in the living room. I pushed him onto the inflatable mattress (super hot, right?) and started making out with him. He was a surprisingly good kisser for someone so shy. I was TOTALLY into it. Soft lips. Good at mixing things up. Responded well to my gentle teasing and nibbling.
All of a sudden, from the bathroom, we both heard an unbelievably loud "Bluuuuuuuuugh! Bluuuuuuuuuugh!"
Drank Too Much was puking. Very very loudly. These were not cute little girly bulemic pukes that one would hear in the stalls of a sorority house bathroom. These were loud ass, bellowing lumberjack heave-hos that made it sound like she was fighting against a rabid ferret trying to scurry up her throat.
"Is she okay?" Wisconsin asked me, clearly distracted by the vomit soundtrack in the background.
"What? Her? Oh she's fine! I'll go check on her. Hold on."
Fuuuuuuuck. I ran into the bathroom and asked Drank Too Much if she was okay.
"I'm fine!" she said. "Don't worry about me!"
I quickly surveyed the scene. She seemed lucid. She didn't have puke in her hair. She had properly vomited into the toilet. She had enough strength to hold herself up against the toilet seat. Check. Check. Check. "She's good to go!" I concluded.
I returned to Wisconsin and assured him that Drank Too Much was fine. We continued making out.
After about an hour of making out, I realized that both of us were still FULLY CLOTHED. This was totally unacceptable, so I took off his shirt.
I waited for him to do the same to me.
And waited.
And made out some more.
And waited.
Another thirty minutes passed.
At this point, I was like WTF?!?! The sun was about to rise, and I still didn't even get to feel his dick yet! And why the HELL was my dress still on?!?!
So I asked him, "Umm... wow. You like to move slowly, don't you?"
He was super shy and said that he always moves slowly and that he was having fun just making out.
UGH. God damnit! I was annoyed. I wanted to shout at him, "Your fucking mommy isn't here, so forget everything she told you about respecting women and start sucking my nipple! If you need to pretend it's your mommy's, FINE! Suck it like you did until you were 7. Just GET TO WORK."
But I kept my mouth shut. It's not like I was TOTALLY miserable. I didn't mind just making out, and he WAS a really good kisser, but I didn't need a man's rough jeans rubbing up against my soft legs all night. And I wanted to feel how big his dick was. Obvi.
Then I started wondering whether I was making out with a gay. I mean, what man would NOT want to take off my dress? There's a bounty of womanly goodness under there just waiting to be groped.
Disappointingly, we made out nearly fully clothed until sunrise.
He asked me what I was doing the next night, and I was like "Uhhhh.... Really busy. Every last minute is booked. But I had fun! See ya!"
I closed that door like I was slamming it on the face of a boy I caught trying on my thongs.
Like I was going to waste another vaca night on a Midwestern prude boy! No one robs me of Naked Time. NO ONE. I didn't spend $85 waxing my pussy before that trip for nothin! Shieeeet.
But if I ever go back to that city, I'll probably send Wisconsin a little booty text just to see how he responds. "So. Have you balls dropped yet? :)" I think he would like that. Don't you?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
I'm Gonna Phone Sex You Up
I'm a competitive person, and I like to believe that I can accomplish anything if I set my mind to it. Well, almost anything. There's also a list of things where I've realized that NO MATTER WHAT I do, I'll always fucking suck ass, so I'm not even going to bother trying. Like lying. Or not putting out when I'm drunk. Or playing volleyball. Or any other sport on earth.
But I learned last night that there's another thing that I will NEVER do well. And that's making a man come during phone sex.
I FUCKING HATE PHONE SEX! How do people do it?!?! It's so .... AWKWARD. Does anyone actually get turned on?
To add even MORE pressure to the situation, the dude who called me last night called me from Ibiza, so every minute was costing him God knows what, so I totally felt like I had to make the call worth his money! OMG! HOW do prostitutes deal with this kind of pressure!?!?
I told him I'd never had phone sex before, and I felt totally nervous and awkward. So I tried to talk him out of it.
I got naked and got down to business.
The next 68 minutes might have been the most awkward 68 minutes of MY ENTIRE LIFE.
Here are my problems with phone sex.
First, it involves me talking. And when I talk, I'm never serious. I can't utter more than three sentences without making some ridiculous smartass remark. And apparently, wisecracks kind of kill the mood during phone sex.
I considered looking up some kind of script online, but I realized that that would mean I'd have my vibrator on my clit, my cellphone in one hand, and my laptop on me, but I was was like, dude, I'm not setting up a fucking phone sex control center to give this guy an orgasm.
About 30 minutes into the call, I came, and he still hadn't. He kept asking me to make him come, and there was nothing that I could say that would work!
Only one fantasy quasi-worked: "Okay, let's imagine that there's a girl going down on me, and you're banging her from behind..."
And before he could come, his phone died.
Worst. Phone sex. Ever.
He would've had a better shot coming if he dialed up Domino's Pizza. Or a Shell gas station. Or his mom.
If I were him, I'd send me an invoice for that phone bill. Fuck! I'll probably just write him a check because I feel so shitty about it.
And so I've added phone sex to my list of Things to Never Do Again Because You Suck So So Horribly.
But I learned last night that there's another thing that I will NEVER do well. And that's making a man come during phone sex.
I FUCKING HATE PHONE SEX! How do people do it?!?! It's so .... AWKWARD. Does anyone actually get turned on?
To add even MORE pressure to the situation, the dude who called me last night called me from Ibiza, so every minute was costing him God knows what, so I totally felt like I had to make the call worth his money! OMG! HOW do prostitutes deal with this kind of pressure!?!?
I told him I'd never had phone sex before, and I felt totally nervous and awkward. So I tried to talk him out of it.
"You're in Ibiza! Why are you talking to me? You shouldn't be having phone sex. You should be having REAL SEX! Get out there and bang any girl you want! I don't care at all. Seriously!"Fuck. I was totally on the hook for this. So I figured, what the hell? I'll give it my best effort and try it out. I mean, I'm not going to get good unless I practice. And, fortunately, I already have the perfect voice for phone sex (yes, my voice, though manly, can also come across as being very sensual when I'm in the right mood), so I really only needed the content.
"But I'm rock hard thinking about YOU."
I got naked and got down to business.
The next 68 minutes might have been the most awkward 68 minutes of MY ENTIRE LIFE.
Here are my problems with phone sex.
First, it involves me talking. And when I talk, I'm never serious. I can't utter more than three sentences without making some ridiculous smartass remark. And apparently, wisecracks kind of kill the mood during phone sex.
"And there's a girl eating my pussy. She has brown hair because I'm not attracted to blondes. Ugh! And she, unlike me, has big beautiful breasts because she suckered her boyfriend, who is now her ex, into buying her implants. Would you buy me implants? Oh sorry. Off topic. Where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway, this ho is hot and has low self-esteem, as evidenced by her fake tits and willingness to join us for this threesome. It's too bad her skin isn't as soft as an Asian's."Second, it involves having to describe my fantasies. This is a problem for me because 95% of my fantasies would disturb and turn off a man.
"A 55 year-old billionaire picks me up in his Bentley and throws a wad of hundred dollar bills in my face."So I end up having to try to make one up on the spot, which is just way too much pressure!
"No, I don't like that one."
"Fuck!"
"Okay, so let's imagine that this girl...uhhh...what do you like? I dunno! Shit... So this girl is licking your dick while I'm making out with you. And then... ummm... Fuck! So... Hmmm..."Do you feel awkward just reading this? Well, you should. Because I WANTED TO DIE. It was worse than the night I lost my virginity. The first time I had sex, all I needed to do was spread 'em and hold back the tears. This phone sex thing actually required THINKING.
I considered looking up some kind of script online, but I realized that that would mean I'd have my vibrator on my clit, my cellphone in one hand, and my laptop on me, but I was was like, dude, I'm not setting up a fucking phone sex control center to give this guy an orgasm.
About 30 minutes into the call, I came, and he still hadn't. He kept asking me to make him come, and there was nothing that I could say that would work!
Only one fantasy quasi-worked: "Okay, let's imagine that there's a girl going down on me, and you're banging her from behind..."
And before he could come, his phone died.
Worst. Phone sex. Ever.
He would've had a better shot coming if he dialed up Domino's Pizza. Or a Shell gas station. Or his mom.
If I were him, I'd send me an invoice for that phone bill. Fuck! I'll probably just write him a check because I feel so shitty about it.
And so I've added phone sex to my list of Things to Never Do Again Because You Suck So So Horribly.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
You Will Never Meet Me
Yes, you.
"You" meaning my legions of obsessed fans who are reading this post using your dorky little Google Reader before masturbating to the fantasy of banging me and then reading about yourself on this blog.
But, for the record, I still enjoy receiving requests to meet in person because they're quite flattering! So keep 'em coming! Obvi my ego could totally use a boost.
You all should know by now that any man who crosses my path is fair game for this blog. I don't care if he's the sweetest gentleman on earth. I can ALWAYS find a reason to shit on a man. Always. And as you have probably noticed, it's totally one of my favorite pastimes.
I thought I'd share a recent piece of fan mail with you. I didn't respond to this fan because I felt it would be more effective to respond here. Why shower a random groupie with the glory of my words in a private venue that would deprive my readers of such awe-inspiring thoughts? No man is so deserving.
Here's what my admirer had to say:
And here is my response:
That wasn't too harsh, was it? Ha! Like I CARE.
"You" meaning my legions of obsessed fans who are reading this post using your dorky little Google Reader before masturbating to the fantasy of banging me and then reading about yourself on this blog.
But, for the record, I still enjoy receiving requests to meet in person because they're quite flattering! So keep 'em coming! Obvi my ego could totally use a boost.
You all should know by now that any man who crosses my path is fair game for this blog. I don't care if he's the sweetest gentleman on earth. I can ALWAYS find a reason to shit on a man. Always. And as you have probably noticed, it's totally one of my favorite pastimes.
I thought I'd share a recent piece of fan mail with you. I didn't respond to this fan because I felt it would be more effective to respond here. Why shower a random groupie with the glory of my words in a private venue that would deprive my readers of such awe-inspiring thoughts? No man is so deserving.
Here's what my admirer had to say:
Ha, well hello to you also gorgeous ;)
And yes, glad to hear that [insert rando's name] is passing along the good word - though I question what she has told you about me... I think I confidently (not "cockily") stated that I would be within your top 3% search as long as you removed the height requirement. Though what I lack in height I make up for in energy, craziness and straight weirdness, to say the least - though I prefer to be labeled unique or one of a kind. Keep in mind that this all came out AFTER I professed my love for you. Your blog words seem to have won my heart over... As the last of a dying breed of helpless romantics I think [insert rando's name] sent me there to help get me past someone else and instead she makes me fall for you. Oh the irony. Anyway, now you have my information for stalking while I'm still basing the fantasies in my head on mental images of one anime shot and your spoken words. Now that you have a photo I get one also, yes? Looking forward to continuing to proclaim my love for you via text until I get the chance in person. Just keep up the captivating words...
And here is my response:
Awww..... You LOVE me. That's cute. Join the club. Thousands of other men feel the same way, but I'm still flattered that someone a few inches shy of being a Top 3% Alpha Male enjoys my blog so much! It's too bad - for you, that is - that in my world, if you're a few inches shorter than 6' tall, you're invisible to me. I wear 5" stilettos everywhere I go. I couldn't possibly engage in my nightly pub craw with someone I can't even see when my shoes are on! In other words, you could have the most beautiful face on earth, but would you really ask me to go through the effort of looking down in order to see it? I could never be with someone so high-maintenance.
Additionally, I've learned from experience that meeting or dating my fans is a horrible idea. I can't put myself in situations where I'm at such an information disadvantage! Don't get me wrong - I would still dominate you. But I find it BORING when men tell me exactly what I want to hear because they KNOW exactly what I want to hear. Zzzzzzzz.....
Also, I must protect my anonymity. I wouldn't be able to date and fuck multiple men at the same time if everyone knew about this blog and my identity! And if I can't do that, then I'd have nothing to write about. And if I had nothing to write about, you'd have one less thing to look forward to each day. So really, I can't meet you because I'm thinking about YOUR happiness.
But don't be sad. You'll find another girl to help you forget about your ex. No, she won't be as witty or perceptive as I am, but take solace in knowing that you are one of numerous men battling to spend time with me with me, and only ONE of these men will actually be able to successfully lock me down. Statistically speaking, that one lucky asshole probably wouldn't have been you even if I had let you try. Therefore, in addition to worrying about your happiness, I'm protecting you from the agony of defeat.
And...let's be honest with ourselves, shall we? Based on your email, you're not Boo. Boo would never write something so gay.
Thanks again for your kind words. I hope you find the girl you're looking for.
That wasn't too harsh, was it? Ha! Like I CARE.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Please Cheat On Me Then Dump Me
I recently saw a girlfriend whom I hadn't seen in years. She looked AMAZING. She was already thin when I knew her before, but she's now BONE THIN. Super hot.
I told her that she's lost a ton of weight, and I asked her what she did. She told me that she was depressed after she found out her boyfriend cheated on her, and she didn't eat much after that. She just had no appetite.
Holy shit.
Jackpot.
Finally a diet plan that doesn't involve increasing my hours of cardio or cutting out carbs.
What I need is heartache. Heartache strong enough to rob me of my appetite. And if I lose my will to live along the way, well, fuck it! It'll be worth it!
So now I really need a man. It's no longer just about the sex and desire for a drinking buddy. It's now pertinent that he rips my heart to shreds so that I can finally have the body I've always fantasized about.
Come to me, box of tissues to wipe the tears and string bikinis to expose every last rib!
If any of you out there want to date me and then cheat on me, I'm all ears. Let's do this. But first you have to make me fall in love with you. If you think you're up for the challenge, add me as a friend on Facebook!
And if you choose to send me messages, please know that every word is fair game for this blog.
Heh heh...
I told her that she's lost a ton of weight, and I asked her what she did. She told me that she was depressed after she found out her boyfriend cheated on her, and she didn't eat much after that. She just had no appetite.
Holy shit.
Jackpot.
Finally a diet plan that doesn't involve increasing my hours of cardio or cutting out carbs.
What I need is heartache. Heartache strong enough to rob me of my appetite. And if I lose my will to live along the way, well, fuck it! It'll be worth it!
So now I really need a man. It's no longer just about the sex and desire for a drinking buddy. It's now pertinent that he rips my heart to shreds so that I can finally have the body I've always fantasized about.
Come to me, box of tissues to wipe the tears and string bikinis to expose every last rib!
If any of you out there want to date me and then cheat on me, I'm all ears. Let's do this. But first you have to make me fall in love with you. If you think you're up for the challenge, add me as a friend on Facebook!
And if you choose to send me messages, please know that every word is fair game for this blog.
Heh heh...
I Was Propositioned
It's not unusual for a man to show up on a woman's doorstep shortly after 2 AM. It happens to me all the time. It once happened as late as 3:30 AM. Yes, I tend to have that effect on men. And by "effect," I obviously mean Will Put Out At Any Hour.
But I recently learned that I have another "effect" on men.
A male friend of mine - let's call him Slumber Party - called me at 2 AM and asked to come over TO TALK and NOT TOUCH AT ALL. In his words, it would be "strictly platonic."
It seemed like a weird but harmless proposition, but before I could decide, he was ALREADY AT MY FUCKING DOOR.
And so Slumber Party and I got under the covers, stayed up late gossiping and joking around, and remained fully clothed the entire time. We even slept on opposite sides of the bed.
It was a platonic sleepover.
A man literally wanted to come over and lie next to me so he could LAUGH AT MY FUCKING JOKES ALL NIGHT!
And this is the second "effect" that I have on men. Men want to hang out with me and chat with me all night. And they especially love telling me about the other girls they're dating. But they don't want to touch me. I've actually had TWO straight men sleep beside me in bed WITH THEIR ARMS CROSSED! Hahahaha! As stiff, rigid, and uninterested as mummies!
This cracks me up because all of my other girlfriends are COMPLETELY unable to maintain a platonic relationship with a male friend, whereas I can have men DRUNK and IN MY BED at 2 AM and still ... NOTHING!
It's not that I wanted anything to happen. Believe me, I didn't.
But I'm just sayin! Don't my boobs look at least slightly tantalizing? Not even the left one, which is slightly larger?!?!
FUUUUUUUCK! I'm getting implants. I'm over having 527 platonic male friends. Someone needs to cop a fucking feel before I kill myself.
But I recently learned that I have another "effect" on men.
A male friend of mine - let's call him Slumber Party - called me at 2 AM and asked to come over TO TALK and NOT TOUCH AT ALL. In his words, it would be "strictly platonic."
It seemed like a weird but harmless proposition, but before I could decide, he was ALREADY AT MY FUCKING DOOR.
And so Slumber Party and I got under the covers, stayed up late gossiping and joking around, and remained fully clothed the entire time. We even slept on opposite sides of the bed.
It was a platonic sleepover.
A man literally wanted to come over and lie next to me so he could LAUGH AT MY FUCKING JOKES ALL NIGHT!
And this is the second "effect" that I have on men. Men want to hang out with me and chat with me all night. And they especially love telling me about the other girls they're dating. But they don't want to touch me. I've actually had TWO straight men sleep beside me in bed WITH THEIR ARMS CROSSED! Hahahaha! As stiff, rigid, and uninterested as mummies!
This cracks me up because all of my other girlfriends are COMPLETELY unable to maintain a platonic relationship with a male friend, whereas I can have men DRUNK and IN MY BED at 2 AM and still ... NOTHING!
It's not that I wanted anything to happen. Believe me, I didn't.
But I'm just sayin! Don't my boobs look at least slightly tantalizing? Not even the left one, which is slightly larger?!?!
FUUUUUUUCK! I'm getting implants. I'm over having 527 platonic male friends. Someone needs to cop a fucking feel before I kill myself.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Sex? Ewww!
As you all know, I'm Asian. What you may not know (unless you're Asian as well) is that Asian parents never talk to their kids about sex. NEVER EVER. No matter what. If I told my mom I was raped, she'd respond by saying, "So when are you going to apply to business school? You'll never be successful without a graduate degree!"
This means that Asian parents never have The Sex Talk with their kids. This includes my parents.
So I learned what sex was from a very mature, much wiser girl. She was 10, and I was 8.
The conversation went something like this.
But I don't want my offspring learning about sex from some random idiot kid next door. This would be ridiculous. Especially when their mother is a fucking Sexpert like me. It would be like Oprah Winfrey refusing to teach her kids about media. Or Julia Childs refusing to teach her kids how to cook. Or Pocahontas not teaching her kids how to save white imperialists from starvation. Fucking absurd, right? It's so absurd I can't stand it.
So I'm going to have The Sex Talk, and I'm going to prep like hell for it. In other words, I'll have a script memorized and ready to go before my kids are even born. Hell, why wait until then? I'll have it ready before I've even met daddy (Boo)!
In other words, I'm going to draft it now. I'm starting a new series called Conversations with Boo, Jr., and my first one is below.
Also, if anyone has any contacts at The Disney Channel, hook me up! I imagine that they might want to make an after school special out of this script. What a great way for me to give back. Give, give, give. Sometimes I feel like that's all I ever do. God. I'm going to make an amazing mother someday.
This means that Asian parents never have The Sex Talk with their kids. This includes my parents.
So I learned what sex was from a very mature, much wiser girl. She was 10, and I was 8.
The conversation went something like this.
Sage 10 Year-Old: "You don't know how babies are made? Do you want me to tell you?"Yep. That's how it went down. And I still feel the same way about sex. I think it's TOTALLY NASTY. Unless I'm drunk, which -- fortunately for Boo and unfortunately for my reputation -- is 90% of the time. When I'm wasted, sex is the #2 thing I want most in life, right after pizza.
Innocent Me: "Yes, tell me please."
Sage 10 Year-Old: "It's soooo gross. Men and women have sex, and this is where the man puts his penis IN the woman's vagina."
Innocent Me: "Ewwwww! No way! Oh my god! That's so disgusting! Why would anyone do that? I would never let anyone do that to me! Would you?"
Sage 10-Year Old: "Of course not! I'm having babies the NORMAL way!"
Innocent Me: "What's that?"
Sage 10-Year Old: "Oh. You can just have a doctor help you. You can just take a pill."
Innocent Me: "Ohhhhhh. I'm totally doing that, too. Why would anyone else do it the other way? It's so disgusting. I'm NEVER doing that."
But I don't want my offspring learning about sex from some random idiot kid next door. This would be ridiculous. Especially when their mother is a fucking Sexpert like me. It would be like Oprah Winfrey refusing to teach her kids about media. Or Julia Childs refusing to teach her kids how to cook. Or Pocahontas not teaching her kids how to save white imperialists from starvation. Fucking absurd, right? It's so absurd I can't stand it.
So I'm going to have The Sex Talk, and I'm going to prep like hell for it. In other words, I'll have a script memorized and ready to go before my kids are even born. Hell, why wait until then? I'll have it ready before I've even met daddy (Boo)!
In other words, I'm going to draft it now. I'm starting a new series called Conversations with Boo, Jr., and my first one is below.
For those of you out there who are too lazy to draft your own scripts for The Sex Talk, please feel free to use mine! I'm very generous, and I feel that it would be a great way for any child to learn about sex.
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Sit down, my love. Mommy is going to teach you about how babies are made!"
Boo, Jr.: "I don't care. I'm only three."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Sweetie, you're never too young to learn about sex."
Boo, Jr.: "What's that? Can daddy teach me instead? I want daddy."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "No, daddy is busy at work buying another company."
Boo, Jr.: "But it's Saturday!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "I know. It makes me sad when daddy is gone on Saturdays, too. But you know what cheers mommy up? Remembering that daddy is gone so that we can live in this 50,000 square foot estate with all of our cooks and servants. Don't you love our big family of helpers?"
Boo, Jr.: "Yes, especially nanny Eloisa, who reads me bedtime stories after you fall asleep at 8 o'clock. Why do you call her Helper #4?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "What? Yes, Helper #4 is wonderful. Is her name Eloisa? Good for her for learning enough English to read your children's books to you."
Boo, Jr.: "Eloisa was born here like you. She only speaks English."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Isn't it funny when your friends call our house a 'castle?'"
Boo, Jr.: "Hahahah! Yes, mommy, I love it!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Me, too, baby. My friends do it, too. It makes mommy feel so good. But back to the reason why I pulled you away from your Latin lesson. Mommy wants to teach you about sex."
Boo, Jr.: "Okay. Is it fun? Is it a game?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "You're wise beyond your years! Yes, it is a VERY fun game. And you know what's really cool? It's one of the few games out there you can play by yourself, with one other person, or as a multi-player game with an unlimited number of players! Doesn't that sound great?"
Boo, Jr.: "Yes! I wanna play now!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Haha! That's my boy! Hold on, my little horndog. I have a lot more to teach you before you try it!"
[I pinch Boo Jr.'s cheeks playfully.]
Mom of the Millennium (me): "You know what else makes sex the best game ever? Unlike ANY OTHER GAME, you're never too tired to play, you never get sick of it, it becomes more fun the more you do it, AND you can play it as much as you want with ANYONE ANYWHERE, ANYTIME! Doesn't that sound amazing?"
Boo, Jr.: "Yes! It sounds like the best game ever!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "It really is. Mommy wishes she had invented it herself. But mommy is so good at it that daddy always says that he feels as though mommy had invented it!"
Boo, Jr.: "Wow!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes, mommy is one of the best and most experienced players in the world."
Boo, Jr.: "So how do you play?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Well, there's an infinite number of ways to play! If you liked trying on mommy's shoes, then I could tell you about how you would play with another boy, but since you prefer playing catch with daddy, I'll explain how you would play with another girl."
Boo, Jr.: "Ew! I don't wanna play with a girl!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "It's not that bad playing with another girl! Mommy has done it many times. I'm sure you'll LOVE IT, honey."
Boo, Jr.: "Okay, if you say so. I guess I should listen to you because daddy says that you're always right."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Awww. That was sweet of him. Daddy is a very smart man. He may not be beautiful like mommy, but he's definitely very smart. Now where was I? Oh yes, I was about to explain to you how you would have sex with a girl. So you know how you use Little Boo, Jr. to go pee pee?"
Boo, Jr.: "Yes."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Well, Little Boo, Jr. has a lot more power than that. Someday, Little Boo, Jr. will grow big and strong like daddy's."
Boo, Jr.: "Really? How big and strong?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "See mommy's thigh? As big as that. And as strong as Helper #27."
Boo, Jr.: "Your personal trainer, Chris?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yeah, whatever. As strong as Jim."
Boo, Jr.: "His name is Chris."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "And when Little Boo, Jr. grows big and strong, you'll be able to do more things with him. And the way the game sex works is that you take Little Boo, Jr. and stick Little Boo, Jr. in a girl in any of her holes where Little Boo, Jr. will fit."
Boo, Jr.: "What? Why? How is that fun?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Because when Little Boo, Jr. becomes big and strong, this will be the BEST feeling in the world. Something unlike anything else."
Boo, Jr.: "Okay, if you say so. And how do you know who wins the game?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Well, the game ends when Little Boo, Jr. does something called 'blowing a load.' This is when a really delicious white fluid called semen squirts out of Little Boo, Jr."
Boo, Jr.: "Like pee? And does it really taste good? How do you know?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "It's nothing like pee, and yes, semen tastes wonderful. I know because I've tasted semen from hundreds of men."
Boo, Jr.: "Do you swallow it?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "I don't have to, but I do it because it makes the game more fun. But sometimes when I play with daddy, he doesn't want me to swallow it because he likes to squirt it all over mommy's face."
Boo, Jr.: "Haha! That's funny! Like a watergun!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes!"
Boo, Jr.: "How often do you and daddy play sex together?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Twice a day! Every morning and every night. Sometimes, mommy visits daddy at work, and we play there, too. We also play in the Bentley, helicopter, swimming pool, and at our favorite restaurants. We've played almost everywhere!"
Boo, Jr.: "Wow. You guys play a lot."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes. I married daddy because he loves playing sex as much as I do. He also doesn't mind when I play with other people while he's at work."
Boo, Jr.: "Daddy is nice."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes. Yes, he is."
Boo, Jr.: "So how much longer until Little Boo, Jr. gets big and strong so I can play sex, too?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "How old are you now? Three? I think you'll be ready to play any day now. You'll know when you're ready."
Boo, Jr.: "How old were you the first time you played sex?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Haha! That's a funny story. Believe it or not, I didn't play sex for the first time until I was TWENTY! People lied to me and told me I was supposed to wait until I found someone I loved in order to play sex with them. If anyone ever tells this to you, DON'T believe them. Always remember that your mommy taught you that you can play sex with anyone. Anyway, when I finally realized that I didn't need to be in love to play sex, I played sex with a gorgeous mulatto in Mexico during spring break!"
Boo, Jr.: "And how do I decide which girl to play with?"
Mom of he Millennium (me): "Easy! Pick the prettiest girl who is willing to play with you. Try to find the girls who are energetic and consistently reveal a lot of skin like mommy. They'll be more fun."
Boo, Jr.: "Neat! It sounds easy! But if I play only with pretty girls, will the ugly girls get mad?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes, but ugly people know that no one wants to play sex with them because it's more work. When you play with someone ugly, you have to imagine that you're playing with someone pretty, and that's a waste of energy."
Boo, Jr.: "And you always say to never waste energy or time but money is A-okay!"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "That's right!"
Boo, Jr.: "This game sounds easy."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "It will be easy for you, pookie. Because you're handsome, rich, funny, and smart like daddy. When you're ready to play, girls will be lined up to play with you. I'm hoping that you have hundreds of playmates over the course of your life. Nothing would make me happier."
Boo, Jr.: "Thanks, mommy. You're the best."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Anything for you. Now run along. It's time for my Nooner with helpers #16 and 22. And then I need to go buy next week's wardrobe."
Boo, Jr.: "16 and 22? John and David? The boys who clean our pool without their shirts on because you won't let them wear them? Those shirts are weird anyway. They always have Greek letters on them."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "Yes, the pool boys! See you tomorrow, Boo, Jr!"
Boo, Jr.: "But it's lunchtime. I won't see you until tomorrow?"
Mom of the Millennium (me): "No. I'm going shopping for the rest of the day and will be fast asleep before you're done with soccer practice. Didn't you look at today's Excel schedule that I have projected on your bedroom wall?"
Boo, Jr.: "Oh yeah. And I have the laminated printout right here, on the lanyard like I wear it every day. I like that you plan all of my awake minutes, mommy. I never have to think about what to do next."
Mom of the Millennium (me): "We're both behind schedule now. Stop talking immediately and run along! No time for a hug! I'm taking the 'copter to Marc Jacobs' loft. Air kiss!"
Also, if anyone has any contacts at The Disney Channel, hook me up! I imagine that they might want to make an after school special out of this script. What a great way for me to give back. Give, give, give. Sometimes I feel like that's all I ever do. God. I'm going to make an amazing mother someday.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
WTF?! Blowjobs are Optional?!
Many of my successful girlfriends (the ones who have successfully locked down a man, that is) have told me that men need to be "trained" like puppies - scolded when they do something wrong and rewarded when they do something right.
I totally agree that this is probably the best way to go about getting what you want from a man, but I SUCK at this!
As you all can see, I am HORRENDOUS at training men. So I asked some girls for tips on what I can use as "treats" to get men to behave.
And you know what I learned? A group of girls taught me that BLOWJOBS ARE TREATS! Can you fucking believe that?! They only give blowjobs to their men once in a looooooong time (and we're talking 2x / year here, people, not 2x / month)!
This blew my mind. I had always viewed blowjobs as a necessary part of a hook-up - like kissing, groping, slapping, scratching, biting, spitting, and getting naked. I NEVER thought I had the option of not giving a blowjob!
Here's an additional shocker: the same group of girls taught me that LETTING A MAN EAT YOUR BOX IS A TREAT!
I almost came and fainted when I heard this.
But I see their point. It IS a treat if a man loves it! And what a beautiful spin this is.
I can already imagine the possibilities...
My world has changed.
All I need now is a new man to practice on! I'm going to become WAY better at this man training thing.
Good-bye, blowjobs! Hello, engagement ring!
Hmmm.... that sounds like a plan doomed for failure...
I totally agree that this is probably the best way to go about getting what you want from a man, but I SUCK at this!
Example 1: A dude I was dating totally blew me off one day. What did I did I do the next time I saw him? I told him I was annoyed that he blew me off. Then, I cooked him dinner and fucked his brains out.
Example 2: I told a guy that I won't fuck him unless we're dating. He never asked me out on a date, so we've remained friends. Friends who fuck every time we get wasted.
Example 3: I gave a guy morning head. Afterward, when I told him I had to go home, he then rolled over and went to bed. He didn't even bother opening his eyes when he said "Bye."
As you all can see, I am HORRENDOUS at training men. So I asked some girls for tips on what I can use as "treats" to get men to behave.
And you know what I learned? A group of girls taught me that BLOWJOBS ARE TREATS! Can you fucking believe that?! They only give blowjobs to their men once in a looooooong time (and we're talking 2x / year here, people, not 2x / month)!
This blew my mind. I had always viewed blowjobs as a necessary part of a hook-up - like kissing, groping, slapping, scratching, biting, spitting, and getting naked. I NEVER thought I had the option of not giving a blowjob!
Here's an additional shocker: the same group of girls taught me that LETTING A MAN EAT YOUR BOX IS A TREAT!
I almost came and fainted when I heard this.
But I see their point. It IS a treat if a man loves it! And what a beautiful spin this is.
I can already imagine the possibilities...
"Boo, thanks for cooking dinner. You may eat my box now."
"Boo, thanks for the new necklace! You may eat my box now."
"Boo, thanks for the surprise trip to Saint-Tropez! You may eat my box now."
My world has changed.
All I need now is a new man to practice on! I'm going to become WAY better at this man training thing.
Good-bye, blowjobs! Hello, engagement ring!
Hmmm.... that sounds like a plan doomed for failure...
What's Yo Numbah?
If my friends absolutely had to HONESTLY answer only one question from me, I'd ask them all, "What's yo numbah?!!?!"
And by "numbah," I mean Number of Sexual Partners, of course. Duh! Does anything else in the world matter more?
The reason why I'd choose this question is because I know that everyone fucking LIES their filthy asses off about this!
Isn't it fascinating how most men will say their Number is 20 and most women will say 3? How the fuck would this even be feasible? Does the population of sexually active women outnumber the population of men by that much? Ha! Doubtful. Which brings me back to my earlier point - we're all LIARS.
Come on, whores! Out with it! Spill the beans! Tell everyone your REAL Number so that I don't look like such a big slut! I KNOW you've really slept with over 10 men, you fucking liars!
Another interesting thing about your Number - I don't think that couples (whether they're dating, engaged, or married) should EVER EVER EVER tell each other their Numbers. People always wonder if they should ask about it, and I always tell them the same thing: "HELL NO! Nothing good can come of this! There is no good answer. Whether your guy or girl says 1, 3, 5, 10, 20, or 100, you'll probably be disappointed because he/she's inexperienced or too experienced. There is NO ANSWER that will make you happy." I'm so astute.
One last point about Numbers. I think that people's REAL Numbers would surprise the shit out of everyone. I know some party girls whose numbers are 3, and I know some innocent looking little Asian girls who take it up the ass from a different dude every weekend.
God I'd give anything to know what everyone's real Numbers are. ANYTHING.
By the way, Boo, if you're reading this, my number is 4. Unless I should count girls. Or if I have to count threesomes as 2. Or if I have to count the men whose names I've forgotten. Or if I have to count the times I don't remember having sex but am PRETTY sure it happened (damn alcohol and roofies...). In which case my number is ever so slightly higher. Do you still love me?
UPDATE: I LOVE the fact that one of my readers anonymously posted her Number! Anyone who comes across this post in the future, please post your age, gender, and Number. I'm DYING to know the truth about how much everyone is whoring it up out there.
And by "numbah," I mean Number of Sexual Partners, of course. Duh! Does anything else in the world matter more?
The reason why I'd choose this question is because I know that everyone fucking LIES their filthy asses off about this!
Isn't it fascinating how most men will say their Number is 20 and most women will say 3? How the fuck would this even be feasible? Does the population of sexually active women outnumber the population of men by that much? Ha! Doubtful. Which brings me back to my earlier point - we're all LIARS.
Come on, whores! Out with it! Spill the beans! Tell everyone your REAL Number so that I don't look like such a big slut! I KNOW you've really slept with over 10 men, you fucking liars!
Another interesting thing about your Number - I don't think that couples (whether they're dating, engaged, or married) should EVER EVER EVER tell each other their Numbers. People always wonder if they should ask about it, and I always tell them the same thing: "HELL NO! Nothing good can come of this! There is no good answer. Whether your guy or girl says 1, 3, 5, 10, 20, or 100, you'll probably be disappointed because he/she's inexperienced or too experienced. There is NO ANSWER that will make you happy." I'm so astute.
One last point about Numbers. I think that people's REAL Numbers would surprise the shit out of everyone. I know some party girls whose numbers are 3, and I know some innocent looking little Asian girls who take it up the ass from a different dude every weekend.
God I'd give anything to know what everyone's real Numbers are. ANYTHING.
By the way, Boo, if you're reading this, my number is 4. Unless I should count girls. Or if I have to count threesomes as 2. Or if I have to count the men whose names I've forgotten. Or if I have to count the times I don't remember having sex but am PRETTY sure it happened (damn alcohol and roofies...). In which case my number is ever so slightly higher. Do you still love me?
UPDATE: I LOVE the fact that one of my readers anonymously posted her Number! Anyone who comes across this post in the future, please post your age, gender, and Number. I'm DYING to know the truth about how much everyone is whoring it up out there.
Friday, July 10, 2009
You're Not Funny, But I Am
You know what I hate? When I'm hooking up with someone in a non-exclusive relationship (AKA all of the sex I've ever had) and the dude starts teasing me by almost starting to penetrate me without a condom. This is FUCKING ANNOYING because (1) I KNOW we shouldn't be having sex without condoms and (2) I really wish we could because it DOES feel awesome AND it would mean that we actually ARE in an exclusive relationship, which, as I mentioned above and all throughout this blog, never happens to me.
Well one night, this condomless penetration tease happened to me, and I said my usual, "Stop! Put a condom on first!" GOD. Why do I ALWAYS have to be the responsible one?
Anyhow, do you know what the dude said?
"I was just kidding!"
What.
The.
Fuck.
I WAS JUST KIDDING?!
I'm sorry. In my world, saying "I'm just kidding" means you've just said or done something that someone else would find humorous. Like, for example, every word of this flawless blog.
But TRYING TO SHOVE YOUR DICK IN ME WITHOUT A CONDOM IS NOT FUNNY.
Or is it? Wait, let me make sure I'm giving this guy a fair shot. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. I mean, perhaps my expectations for what's "funny" are too high because I'm so fucking hilarious. I realize that not everyone can be as funny as I am.
So let me consider the possibility that what he did was a good joke.
Thinking about it... thinking about it... ummm.... NO. Still not makin me laugh.
Great. So I'm not being too hard on him.
And instead of just being negative, I'm going to offer a few helpful examples of what's funny and not funny to do in bed.
Funny: Pretending to run out of condoms right before the man is about to finish.
Not funny: Running out the door right before the man is about to finish.
Funny: Telling the man in the middle of sex that you're actually a virgin.
Not funny: Telling the man in the middle of sex that you're actually 13.
Funny: Having sex on your friend's bed.
Not funny: When your friend has sex on your bed.
Does that help clear things up? I hope it does because otherwise you're a fucking moron.
Well one night, this condomless penetration tease happened to me, and I said my usual, "Stop! Put a condom on first!" GOD. Why do I ALWAYS have to be the responsible one?
Anyhow, do you know what the dude said?
"I was just kidding!"
What.
The.
Fuck.
I WAS JUST KIDDING?!
I'm sorry. In my world, saying "I'm just kidding" means you've just said or done something that someone else would find humorous. Like, for example, every word of this flawless blog.
But TRYING TO SHOVE YOUR DICK IN ME WITHOUT A CONDOM IS NOT FUNNY.
Or is it? Wait, let me make sure I'm giving this guy a fair shot. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. I mean, perhaps my expectations for what's "funny" are too high because I'm so fucking hilarious. I realize that not everyone can be as funny as I am.
So let me consider the possibility that what he did was a good joke.
Thinking about it... thinking about it... ummm.... NO. Still not makin me laugh.
Great. So I'm not being too hard on him.
And instead of just being negative, I'm going to offer a few helpful examples of what's funny and not funny to do in bed.
Funny: Pretending to run out of condoms right before the man is about to finish.
Not funny: Running out the door right before the man is about to finish.
Funny: Telling the man in the middle of sex that you're actually a virgin.
Not funny: Telling the man in the middle of sex that you're actually 13.
Funny: Having sex on your friend's bed.
Not funny: When your friend has sex on your bed.
Does that help clear things up? I hope it does because otherwise you're a fucking moron.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Boo, Don't Be Afraid
This is one letter in a series of letters to My Future Boo ("The One" who has yet to discover and appreciate me).
Dear Boo,
It has come to my attention that perhaps you're not trying hard enough to find me because you think you're not ready to settle down yet.
Most likely, this is because you fear a few things:
(1) only having one pussy to bang the rest of your life;
(2) leading the boring life of a married man;
(3) I'll let myself go and you'll be stuck with me;
(4) I'll spend all your money; and
(5) you think you can do better.
I agree that these things sound dreadful. I love you so much that I wouldn't want you to endure those things either.
So here's what I propose:
(1) You can bang other girls even after we're married. We can discuss the frequency that I'll allow this to happen once we actually meet, but I just want you to know that it's cool with me. My only requirement is that she be a complete bimbo because I know you'd never leave me for a stupid whore. So if she's hotter than I am, great. Younger than I am? Obvi. Illiterate and unable to read a Stop sign? Perfect. Bang the shit out of her. Of course I'll be fucking other men as well because married people share everything, including the right to fuck outside the marriage.
(2) As for the second point, you're only afraid you won't have fun because you haven't met me yet! I'm seriously the most fun girl ever created. You want costumes? Stripper shoes? A pole? A third? You got it. Just ask any of the hundreds of men who have already fucked me. They'll all confirm that they had a BLAST with me. I've probably fucked at least 4 of your friends, so you could start by asking them. Isn't that convenient? You're marrying such a thoughtful girl.
(3) This one is just stupid. I will NEVER let myself go. Don't you realize how vain and competitive I am? I'll never stop counting calories, working out, or wearing ridiculously expensive clothing and high heels. Because those are the things that define me. I'm nothing without them. Just like you're nothing without me. Yes, you're marrying someone with true depth. You lucky Boo you.
(4) I won't spend all your money because you'll make so much that it's not even possible! What a silly thing to worry about. You'll definitely make enough lettuce to support my shoe fetish. Isn't a $30,000/year shoe budget just a drop in the bucket for you? That's like only 30 pairs of shoes per year. Come on! You can TOTALLY afford that.
(5) Honey. It doesn't get better than this. I never promise anything I can't deliver, and I'm promising you a lifetime filled with laughter, witty banter, high-end labels, massive shit talking (about our "friends," not each other), adventure, and, of course, our old bestie - alcohol. And low on filters, boundaries, budgets, and carbs. Clearly, I'm the ideal woman. Don't you feel as though I was made just for you?
I know what you're thinking, Boo. Our marriage sounds AMAZING. I'm super excited about it, too. :)
Now that I've convinced you to find me, I have just one more thing to say:
HURRY THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING RETARD.
While I may be growing more tan, mature, and sexually experienced every day, I'm not getting any younger. Get your shit together, find me, and lock my ass down. The sooner you do it, the lower my "number" will be when we meet. We wouldn't my "number" to have a comma in it now would we? Of course not. Better act quickly then.
I'm ready for you.
I love you SO MUCH.
But I don't have time to discuss this further because I'm off to Saks! See you in 6 hours.
The perfect woman,
Me
Dear Boo,
It has come to my attention that perhaps you're not trying hard enough to find me because you think you're not ready to settle down yet.
Most likely, this is because you fear a few things:
(1) only having one pussy to bang the rest of your life;
(2) leading the boring life of a married man;
(3) I'll let myself go and you'll be stuck with me;
(4) I'll spend all your money; and
(5) you think you can do better.
I agree that these things sound dreadful. I love you so much that I wouldn't want you to endure those things either.
So here's what I propose:
(1) You can bang other girls even after we're married. We can discuss the frequency that I'll allow this to happen once we actually meet, but I just want you to know that it's cool with me. My only requirement is that she be a complete bimbo because I know you'd never leave me for a stupid whore. So if she's hotter than I am, great. Younger than I am? Obvi. Illiterate and unable to read a Stop sign? Perfect. Bang the shit out of her. Of course I'll be fucking other men as well because married people share everything, including the right to fuck outside the marriage.
(2) As for the second point, you're only afraid you won't have fun because you haven't met me yet! I'm seriously the most fun girl ever created. You want costumes? Stripper shoes? A pole? A third? You got it. Just ask any of the hundreds of men who have already fucked me. They'll all confirm that they had a BLAST with me. I've probably fucked at least 4 of your friends, so you could start by asking them. Isn't that convenient? You're marrying such a thoughtful girl.
(3) This one is just stupid. I will NEVER let myself go. Don't you realize how vain and competitive I am? I'll never stop counting calories, working out, or wearing ridiculously expensive clothing and high heels. Because those are the things that define me. I'm nothing without them. Just like you're nothing without me. Yes, you're marrying someone with true depth. You lucky Boo you.
(4) I won't spend all your money because you'll make so much that it's not even possible! What a silly thing to worry about. You'll definitely make enough lettuce to support my shoe fetish. Isn't a $30,000/year shoe budget just a drop in the bucket for you? That's like only 30 pairs of shoes per year. Come on! You can TOTALLY afford that.
(5) Honey. It doesn't get better than this. I never promise anything I can't deliver, and I'm promising you a lifetime filled with laughter, witty banter, high-end labels, massive shit talking (about our "friends," not each other), adventure, and, of course, our old bestie - alcohol. And low on filters, boundaries, budgets, and carbs. Clearly, I'm the ideal woman. Don't you feel as though I was made just for you?
I know what you're thinking, Boo. Our marriage sounds AMAZING. I'm super excited about it, too. :)
Now that I've convinced you to find me, I have just one more thing to say:
HURRY THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING RETARD.
While I may be growing more tan, mature, and sexually experienced every day, I'm not getting any younger. Get your shit together, find me, and lock my ass down. The sooner you do it, the lower my "number" will be when we meet. We wouldn't my "number" to have a comma in it now would we? Of course not. Better act quickly then.
I'm ready for you.
I love you SO MUCH.
But I don't have time to discuss this further because I'm off to Saks! See you in 6 hours.
The perfect woman,
Me
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Me Likey Mulattos
I have good news and bad news.
The good news is that I've decided to "grow up." I used to only go for men who are in the top 3% (Top 3% Alpha Males), but the new Mature Me has decided to lower my standards and seek out a man who is merely in the top 4 to 10% (Above Average Joes).
I define Top 3% Alpha Males as men who possess all (yes, ALL) of the following qualities:
- smart
- athletic
- hot
- funny
- well-dressed
- successful
- went to top tier school
- tall
- financially secure
- well-endowed
- amazing in bed
- confident
I define Above Average Joes as men who are missing no more than 2-3 of those characteristics.
Why this decision? Because a friend has convinced me that men in the top 3% aren't nice to girls because they don't have to be. And I'm over mean men. Finally. For real this time. Seriously. No, for real. Stop. I'm serious.
And the bad news? I NO LONGER GET TO FUCK MEN IN THE TOP 3%. Booooooo. Shit. I hate this already. Can I quit?
Of course the day I made this stupid ass commitment to myself, I found myself literally IN BETWEEN a Top 3% Alpha Male and an Above Average Joe who both wanted to do me. God. Life is so hard.
This is what happened. I went to a bar deciding that I would replenish my pipeline with a NICE man. I immediately spotted two Above Average Joes at the bar, so I stood behind them with my girlfriend and started being my usual incredibly charistmatic and unbelievably witty self. Of course they overheard my entire conversation (I'm quite loud) and laughed at everything I said (I'm quite funny).
Eventually, I began to include them in the convo because they were clearly too dorky and shy to jump into it themselves. Perfect. Exactly the kind of men I wanted.
I quickly ascertained that they were both software engineers who work at tech start-ups. Jackpot! Finally - men who will treat me right! And they were SUPER NICE to me. God. They looked so grateful just to be talking to a woman. Totally unlike the men I usually fuck.
As I was charming the pants off these engineers and feeling proud of Mature Me, I accidentally bumped into some dude on my left. Okay, well, I was drunk, so maybe it was something more like "fell onto."
He had his back to me, and I said, "OMG! I'm really sorry!" and turned to continue my conversation with the Dorky Engineer Dudes.
The guy I bumped into then turned around and said, "It's okay. You don't need to apologize to me."
I looked over at him as he turned around.
Oh my fucking god.
Oh my fucking god.
Oh my fucking god.
He
was
the
finest
man
I
have
ever
seen.
He smiled at me. He fully turned toward me. And he spoke to me. "You're cute. What's your name?"
FUCK. It was the highlight of my life. Also, Mature Me was in trouble.
Don't do it, I thought to myself. Don't fucking do it. This is exactly the kind of man you've sworn off. Turn your ass around and keep talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes. Please. Ignore him. Walk away. Don't answer.
"KC."
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
I was weak. And he was sooooooo hot. I began flirting with him.
I will name him Please Fuck Me Mulatto because he was 1/2 black, 1/2 white, and the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. All he'd have to do is wink at me and I would come. And come. And come.
I realized I was dealing with a top 1% male. He literally possessed EVERY amazing characteristic I listed above. ALL OF THEM. (Because 1/2 black always means good in bed and well-endowed, right?)
Not only was he top 1%, he was also the most AGGRESSIVE man I've ever met. Here's what went down during my interaction with him:
- He told me to "spin around" so that he could check me out. I'm not fucking kidding you. In the middle of our conversation, he said, "Spin around" and expected me to twirl around for him on command! And he demanded this TWO TIMES.
- Please Fuck Me Mulatto continuously pointed at his cheek and said, "Kiss me." After I did so, he'd say "Now do it again like you mean it." He did this over and over throughout the night, constantly berating my kisses. "What the fuck was that?" "That was awful." "Ugh." Once, he just rolled his eyes at me.
- Please Fuck Me Mulatto mocked me nonstop. "You work out? It doesn't look like it." "You're so full of shit." "You're all talk." "What the fuck are you drinking?" "Who are these losers you're talking to?" "Why are you so loud?"
- Of course this was sandwiched between compliments. "You're so cute." "Nice ass." "You're funny." "I like you." "You're adorable."
- At one point, I was double fisting drinks (Don't judge me. I was thirsty, damnit!), and he grabbed one drink out of my hand, tasted it, and said in a totally disgusted and angry tone of voice, "What the fuck is this? This doesn't taste like it has any alcohol in it. You're weak." And he disappeared with it. I continued talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes, and I turned around after a few minutes to see where Please Fuck Me Mulatto went with my damn drink. It turned out he had been STANDING RIGHT BEHIND ME up against the wall the whole time, FINISHING MY DRINK and STARING AT MY ASS. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
- At another point when I was talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes (I kept going back to them because Mature Me was really trying to win the battle that night), Please Fuck Me Mulatto went up to Dorky Engineer Dude #2, got all up in his face, and asked WITH A COMPLETELY SERIOUS FACE, "Do you fight?" The poor engineer looked confused and scared shitless. He had no idea what to say, so he meekly joked, "Yeah, I'm a cage fighter." Please Fuck Me Mulatto then got up in his face and asked him again, "Do you fight?" The poor engineer still had no idea what was going on (and neither did I, frankly), so he just turned around and started talking to his friend.
- Then, Please Fuck Me Mulatto grabbed my hand and led me outside the bar. I know. Mature Me should not have let this happen, but he was so hot I literally couldn't muster the will to remove my hand from his. Once outside the bar, he took a few steps, leaned against the wall, looked over at me, and POINTED AT THE GROUND IN FRONT OF HIM. In other words, he commanded me to come stand in front of him without uttering a single word. It was the cockiest, most aggressive thing I had ever experienced. And never had I been more turned on in my entire life. Within seconds, we were making out.
- I eventually realized that I needed to stop because things were going too far. Mature Me doesn't want to deal with asshole players anymore. So I pulled away and said I needed to get back to my friends inside the bar. He walked in behind me. As I walked past the bouncer, Please Fuck Me Mulatto slapped my ass. HARD.
Please Fuck Me Mulatto then tried to convince me to come with him to another bar.
Finally, 1 hour and 1 public makeout session later, Mature Me won.
"No, I'm going to stay with my friends."
It was the most difficult sentence I've ever uttered. I was proud of myself. But also, I wanted to weep for the hottest fuck that would never be.
I looked for Dorky Engineer Dudes. They were gone. They had probably walked by me when I was outside making out with Please Fuck Me Mulatto. Whoopsie daisy!
Still manless.
On the bright side, for the first time in my life, I resisted the lure a Top 3% Alpha Male!! Yeah, baby!
Shut up. I know I made out with him, BUT I did successfully walk away from the opportunity to have sex with THE HOTTEST MAN I WOULD EVER FUCK because Mature Me no longer hooks up with hot players (I fucking HATE Mature Me).
Look out, Dorky Engineers With No Game! I'm coming to bang you. Especially if you're a mulatto.
The good news is that I've decided to "grow up." I used to only go for men who are in the top 3% (Top 3% Alpha Males), but the new Mature Me has decided to lower my standards and seek out a man who is merely in the top 4 to 10% (Above Average Joes).
I define Top 3% Alpha Males as men who possess all (yes, ALL) of the following qualities:
- smart
- athletic
- hot
- funny
- well-dressed
- successful
- went to top tier school
- tall
- financially secure
- well-endowed
- amazing in bed
- confident
I define Above Average Joes as men who are missing no more than 2-3 of those characteristics.
Why this decision? Because a friend has convinced me that men in the top 3% aren't nice to girls because they don't have to be. And I'm over mean men. Finally. For real this time. Seriously. No, for real. Stop. I'm serious.
And the bad news? I NO LONGER GET TO FUCK MEN IN THE TOP 3%. Booooooo. Shit. I hate this already. Can I quit?
Of course the day I made this stupid ass commitment to myself, I found myself literally IN BETWEEN a Top 3% Alpha Male and an Above Average Joe who both wanted to do me. God. Life is so hard.
This is what happened. I went to a bar deciding that I would replenish my pipeline with a NICE man. I immediately spotted two Above Average Joes at the bar, so I stood behind them with my girlfriend and started being my usual incredibly charistmatic and unbelievably witty self. Of course they overheard my entire conversation (I'm quite loud) and laughed at everything I said (I'm quite funny).
Eventually, I began to include them in the convo because they were clearly too dorky and shy to jump into it themselves. Perfect. Exactly the kind of men I wanted.
I quickly ascertained that they were both software engineers who work at tech start-ups. Jackpot! Finally - men who will treat me right! And they were SUPER NICE to me. God. They looked so grateful just to be talking to a woman. Totally unlike the men I usually fuck.
As I was charming the pants off these engineers and feeling proud of Mature Me, I accidentally bumped into some dude on my left. Okay, well, I was drunk, so maybe it was something more like "fell onto."
He had his back to me, and I said, "OMG! I'm really sorry!" and turned to continue my conversation with the Dorky Engineer Dudes.
The guy I bumped into then turned around and said, "It's okay. You don't need to apologize to me."
I looked over at him as he turned around.
Oh my fucking god.
Oh my fucking god.
Oh my fucking god.
He
was
the
finest
man
I
have
ever
seen.
He smiled at me. He fully turned toward me. And he spoke to me. "You're cute. What's your name?"
FUCK. It was the highlight of my life. Also, Mature Me was in trouble.
Don't do it, I thought to myself. Don't fucking do it. This is exactly the kind of man you've sworn off. Turn your ass around and keep talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes. Please. Ignore him. Walk away. Don't answer.
"KC."
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
I was weak. And he was sooooooo hot. I began flirting with him.
I will name him Please Fuck Me Mulatto because he was 1/2 black, 1/2 white, and the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. All he'd have to do is wink at me and I would come. And come. And come.
I realized I was dealing with a top 1% male. He literally possessed EVERY amazing characteristic I listed above. ALL OF THEM. (Because 1/2 black always means good in bed and well-endowed, right?)
Not only was he top 1%, he was also the most AGGRESSIVE man I've ever met. Here's what went down during my interaction with him:
- He told me to "spin around" so that he could check me out. I'm not fucking kidding you. In the middle of our conversation, he said, "Spin around" and expected me to twirl around for him on command! And he demanded this TWO TIMES.
- Please Fuck Me Mulatto continuously pointed at his cheek and said, "Kiss me." After I did so, he'd say "Now do it again like you mean it." He did this over and over throughout the night, constantly berating my kisses. "What the fuck was that?" "That was awful." "Ugh." Once, he just rolled his eyes at me.
- Please Fuck Me Mulatto mocked me nonstop. "You work out? It doesn't look like it." "You're so full of shit." "You're all talk." "What the fuck are you drinking?" "Who are these losers you're talking to?" "Why are you so loud?"
- Of course this was sandwiched between compliments. "You're so cute." "Nice ass." "You're funny." "I like you." "You're adorable."
- At one point, I was double fisting drinks (Don't judge me. I was thirsty, damnit!), and he grabbed one drink out of my hand, tasted it, and said in a totally disgusted and angry tone of voice, "What the fuck is this? This doesn't taste like it has any alcohol in it. You're weak." And he disappeared with it. I continued talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes, and I turned around after a few minutes to see where Please Fuck Me Mulatto went with my damn drink. It turned out he had been STANDING RIGHT BEHIND ME up against the wall the whole time, FINISHING MY DRINK and STARING AT MY ASS. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
- At another point when I was talking to Dorky Engineer Dudes (I kept going back to them because Mature Me was really trying to win the battle that night), Please Fuck Me Mulatto went up to Dorky Engineer Dude #2, got all up in his face, and asked WITH A COMPLETELY SERIOUS FACE, "Do you fight?" The poor engineer looked confused and scared shitless. He had no idea what to say, so he meekly joked, "Yeah, I'm a cage fighter." Please Fuck Me Mulatto then got up in his face and asked him again, "Do you fight?" The poor engineer still had no idea what was going on (and neither did I, frankly), so he just turned around and started talking to his friend.
- Then, Please Fuck Me Mulatto grabbed my hand and led me outside the bar. I know. Mature Me should not have let this happen, but he was so hot I literally couldn't muster the will to remove my hand from his. Once outside the bar, he took a few steps, leaned against the wall, looked over at me, and POINTED AT THE GROUND IN FRONT OF HIM. In other words, he commanded me to come stand in front of him without uttering a single word. It was the cockiest, most aggressive thing I had ever experienced. And never had I been more turned on in my entire life. Within seconds, we were making out.
- I eventually realized that I needed to stop because things were going too far. Mature Me doesn't want to deal with asshole players anymore. So I pulled away and said I needed to get back to my friends inside the bar. He walked in behind me. As I walked past the bouncer, Please Fuck Me Mulatto slapped my ass. HARD.
Please Fuck Me Mulatto then tried to convince me to come with him to another bar.
Finally, 1 hour and 1 public makeout session later, Mature Me won.
"No, I'm going to stay with my friends."
It was the most difficult sentence I've ever uttered. I was proud of myself. But also, I wanted to weep for the hottest fuck that would never be.
I looked for Dorky Engineer Dudes. They were gone. They had probably walked by me when I was outside making out with Please Fuck Me Mulatto. Whoopsie daisy!
Still manless.
On the bright side, for the first time in my life, I resisted the lure a Top 3% Alpha Male!! Yeah, baby!
Shut up. I know I made out with him, BUT I did successfully walk away from the opportunity to have sex with THE HOTTEST MAN I WOULD EVER FUCK because Mature Me no longer hooks up with hot players (I fucking HATE Mature Me).
Look out, Dorky Engineers With No Game! I'm coming to bang you. Especially if you're a mulatto.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
How to Find Out Whether Your Man is Fucking Some Other Ho
That might just be the most elegant and poetic title I've ever written. I'm so talented.
Okay, enough loving on myself (for now). Back to the topic.
I recently accidentally stumbled upon a nearly foolproof way to find out whether a man you're fucking is fucking some other slut.
This is what happened. I hooked up with someone, and I accidentally forgot my black bra at his place. I kept meaning to ask him about it, but I always forgot until I was back at my own place. WEEKS went by where I'd continue hooking up at his place but forgetting to ask him for my fucking bra.
Then I started wondering something - why hasn't HE mentioned to me that I had left my bra at his place?
And then the answer hit me. Because the motherfucker doesn't know WHOSE bra it is!! HOLY SHIT! He CAN'T ask me because if it's not mine, I'll know he's banging other twats!!
When I realized this, I was simultaneously repulsed and excited. Repulsed because I realized that other whores were licking his dick on my nights off. Excited because I realized that I can now figure out, with any man, whether there are other girls in the picture!
So what do you have to do? Simple. Wear a generic black bra that doesn't look particularly memorable and leave it in his bedroom. Don't leave behind one of your nice La Perlas because that would be a big waste of money AND the other hobags he's banging probably don't have as fine of taste in intimates, making it easy for him to connect the bra to you.
Also, don't leave the bra somewhere obvious where he'll see it right away the next day. Shove it under a pile of his own clothes or something, so that he won't stumble upon it until DAYS later, giving him enough time to bring other girls through his revolving door.
When he finally does find that bra, BOOM! He's going to have NO FUCKING CLUE which slut left it there!
And then you lie in wait like a predator. Don't ever mention the bra. Does he ever ask you about it? If he doesn't, then you've NAILED HIM!! He's DEFINITELY DEFINITELY DEFINITELY guilty of fucking other girls!!
God. I'm a fucking genius. A FUCKING GEEEEEEEEENIUS!
Should I join the CIA? I'd be SO good at it. Well, except for the fact that I find sharing secrets to be so much more fun than keeping them.
Good luck finding out whether your man is a scumbag! I hope for your sake that he isn't, but, statistically speaking, he probably is.
UPDATE: Just thought of a way to improve this tactic. If your man doesn't mention your bra for a few weeks, you should bring it up by asking, "Have you seen my black bra around here?"
He'll then say that he has and whip it out for you.
Then, fuck with him by saying, "That's not my bra" with the most serious facial expression you can muster.
Analyze the shit out of his face. If he flinches even the SLIGHTEST BIT, then YOU KNOW - your dude is banging other whores. BOOM!
You're welcome, bitches.
Okay, enough loving on myself (for now). Back to the topic.
I recently accidentally stumbled upon a nearly foolproof way to find out whether a man you're fucking is fucking some other slut.
This is what happened. I hooked up with someone, and I accidentally forgot my black bra at his place. I kept meaning to ask him about it, but I always forgot until I was back at my own place. WEEKS went by where I'd continue hooking up at his place but forgetting to ask him for my fucking bra.
Then I started wondering something - why hasn't HE mentioned to me that I had left my bra at his place?
And then the answer hit me. Because the motherfucker doesn't know WHOSE bra it is!! HOLY SHIT! He CAN'T ask me because if it's not mine, I'll know he's banging other twats!!
When I realized this, I was simultaneously repulsed and excited. Repulsed because I realized that other whores were licking his dick on my nights off. Excited because I realized that I can now figure out, with any man, whether there are other girls in the picture!
So what do you have to do? Simple. Wear a generic black bra that doesn't look particularly memorable and leave it in his bedroom. Don't leave behind one of your nice La Perlas because that would be a big waste of money AND the other hobags he's banging probably don't have as fine of taste in intimates, making it easy for him to connect the bra to you.
Also, don't leave the bra somewhere obvious where he'll see it right away the next day. Shove it under a pile of his own clothes or something, so that he won't stumble upon it until DAYS later, giving him enough time to bring other girls through his revolving door.
When he finally does find that bra, BOOM! He's going to have NO FUCKING CLUE which slut left it there!
And then you lie in wait like a predator. Don't ever mention the bra. Does he ever ask you about it? If he doesn't, then you've NAILED HIM!! He's DEFINITELY DEFINITELY DEFINITELY guilty of fucking other girls!!
God. I'm a fucking genius. A FUCKING GEEEEEEEEENIUS!
Should I join the CIA? I'd be SO good at it. Well, except for the fact that I find sharing secrets to be so much more fun than keeping them.
Good luck finding out whether your man is a scumbag! I hope for your sake that he isn't, but, statistically speaking, he probably is.
UPDATE: Just thought of a way to improve this tactic. If your man doesn't mention your bra for a few weeks, you should bring it up by asking, "Have you seen my black bra around here?"
He'll then say that he has and whip it out for you.
Then, fuck with him by saying, "That's not my bra" with the most serious facial expression you can muster.
Analyze the shit out of his face. If he flinches even the SLIGHTEST BIT, then YOU KNOW - your dude is banging other whores. BOOM!
You're welcome, bitches.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Who's the fairest one of all?
ME!
And thank goodness for that. Because I've decided to become AUTOSEXUAL.
What does it mean to be autosexual? It means I don't need a fucking man. And that sounds great.
I've recently decided that I am my own best lover. I basically created a mental checklist of what I'm looking for in a mate and realized that I actually meet all of my own criteria!
Check it out:
Q: Who is able to make you come every time he / she tries?
A: ME!
Q: Who is the funniest person you know?
A: ME!
Q: Who is the best dressed person you know?
A: ME!
Q: Who is always free when you have time to play?
A: ME!
Q: Who's always buying you amazing dinners and fabulous shoes?
A: ME!
Q: Who always pushes you to work harder in order to dominate everyone else?
A: ME!
Q: Who has never once mistreated, disrespected, or annoyed you?
A: ME!
Q: Who would make a sex tape with you but never share it with anyone?
A: ME!
Q: Who is horny whenever you are?
A: ME!
God damnit! Why haven't I started fucking myself sooner? I LOVE myself!
No more hunting for men on Thursday nights. I'm going to stay in and invest in shitloads of very large mirrors that I shall place all over my bedroom and ceiling. And I'll masturbate to my own reflection. Every night.
Sounds like a match made in heaven.
Wedding invitations will be sent out shortly. Meanwhile, I'm registered at BevMo. Show me you love me by buying me booze.
ME!
And thank goodness for that. Because I've decided to become AUTOSEXUAL.
What does it mean to be autosexual? It means I don't need a fucking man. And that sounds great.
I've recently decided that I am my own best lover. I basically created a mental checklist of what I'm looking for in a mate and realized that I actually meet all of my own criteria!
Check it out:
Q: Who is able to make you come every time he / she tries?
A: ME!
Q: Who is the funniest person you know?
A: ME!
Q: Who is the best dressed person you know?
A: ME!
Q: Who is always free when you have time to play?
A: ME!
Q: Who's always buying you amazing dinners and fabulous shoes?
A: ME!
Q: Who always pushes you to work harder in order to dominate everyone else?
A: ME!
Q: Who has never once mistreated, disrespected, or annoyed you?
A: ME!
Q: Who would make a sex tape with you but never share it with anyone?
A: ME!
Q: Who is horny whenever you are?
A: ME!
God damnit! Why haven't I started fucking myself sooner? I LOVE myself!
No more hunting for men on Thursday nights. I'm going to stay in and invest in shitloads of very large mirrors that I shall place all over my bedroom and ceiling. And I'll masturbate to my own reflection. Every night.
Sounds like a match made in heaven.
Wedding invitations will be sent out shortly. Meanwhile, I'm registered at BevMo. Show me you love me by buying me booze.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Infidelity
This is one letter in a series of letters to My Future Boo ("The One" I've yet to meet).
Dear Boo,
I just found out that one of my best girlfriends was cheated on by her live-in boyfriend. They had been together for 5 years. She thought they were going to get married. And this girl is amazing - she's a 10, she makes bank, she's super fun, and she's a sweetheart. Basically, she = me + boobs + $ + a soul. And her DOUCHEBAG BOYFRIEND CHEATED ON HER.
But don't worry, Boo. I know that you're different. You're better than he is, which is why I decided to marry you. I TOTALLY trust you. And more importantly, I know that you know that if you ever cheated on me, it would be the BIGGEST mistake of your life. Because you'd lose me. And I wouldn't look back, no matter how much you begged and no matter what sexual fantasies you offered to fulfill. Even the one where we have a threesome with a Playboy bunny in a Bentley.
But I don't need to say any of this to you because you love me and would never cheat on me. Not even with the busty Latina HR girl or the skinny Asian corporate lawyer. Even if they wanted to go down on you simultaneously. Right? Right.
And of course I don't need to talk about what the financial consequences would be if you cheated on me. I mean, we already went over this in detail when I talked you out of that prenup. But hypothetically speaking, just for shits and giggles, what would make you more angry - (1) losing half your assets to me or (2) knowing that I'd use those assets to replace you with someone smarter, younger, hotter, and funnier and to whom I'd intentionally do all the dirty things in bed that I always refused to do with you, just out of venomous spite? Tee hee.
But enough about infidelity. It's something we'll never have to deal with. Like being poor, unattractive, under-dressed, or unpopular. So not happening to us. EVER.
So glad we're both on the same page. We really ARE soul mates!
Love you, Boo!
[still not telling]
Dear Boo,
I just found out that one of my best girlfriends was cheated on by her live-in boyfriend. They had been together for 5 years. She thought they were going to get married. And this girl is amazing - she's a 10, she makes bank, she's super fun, and she's a sweetheart. Basically, she = me + boobs + $ + a soul. And her DOUCHEBAG BOYFRIEND CHEATED ON HER.
But don't worry, Boo. I know that you're different. You're better than he is, which is why I decided to marry you. I TOTALLY trust you. And more importantly, I know that you know that if you ever cheated on me, it would be the BIGGEST mistake of your life. Because you'd lose me. And I wouldn't look back, no matter how much you begged and no matter what sexual fantasies you offered to fulfill. Even the one where we have a threesome with a Playboy bunny in a Bentley.
But I don't need to say any of this to you because you love me and would never cheat on me. Not even with the busty Latina HR girl or the skinny Asian corporate lawyer. Even if they wanted to go down on you simultaneously. Right? Right.
And of course I don't need to talk about what the financial consequences would be if you cheated on me. I mean, we already went over this in detail when I talked you out of that prenup. But hypothetically speaking, just for shits and giggles, what would make you more angry - (1) losing half your assets to me or (2) knowing that I'd use those assets to replace you with someone smarter, younger, hotter, and funnier and to whom I'd intentionally do all the dirty things in bed that I always refused to do with you, just out of venomous spite? Tee hee.
But enough about infidelity. It's something we'll never have to deal with. Like being poor, unattractive, under-dressed, or unpopular. So not happening to us. EVER.
So glad we're both on the same page. We really ARE soul mates!
Love you, Boo!
[still not telling]
Is Romance Dead or Is It Just Avoiding the Shit Out of Me?
Consider this an update to my recent post on being a Sunday Night Girl. I've realized that there is one rung on the ladder below the Monday Night Girl. The girl I neglected is the Booty Text Girl.
Yes, at least the Monday Night Girl gets to hang out with a man who actually bothered to make plans in advance and schedule time with her, despite the less than desirable night of the week he offered.
The Booty Text Girl, on the other hand, gets no day of the week and doesn't get to mark her calendar with "Fuck Greg on 7/6." She just goes out with her girlfriends and maybe - just MAYBE - at 2 AM she'll get a text from "her man" that says "r u awake?"
The life of a Booty Text Girl is hard. Imagine never knowing for certain when your next fuck will be, living from fuck to fuck. How does she PLAN?! Does she make her bed every night before she goes out? Does she keep a toothbrush and condoms in her purse at all times? And does she still wax every weekend even if most weekends her soft hairless pussy will go unappreciated?!
God. I'd totally DIE if I were her.
Except...I think...I...AM...her. SHITFUCKITYFUCKFUCKSHITTYFUCK!!
I've been finding that none of the men I ever "date" actually ever schedule "dates" with me. There's no "Hey, let's do dinner on Thursday. What time do you get off work?"
Instead, I get a bunch of "I'll be out with my friends, but let's try to meet up afterward, if I'm still awake." Hahahah! Can you fucking believe that shit? TRY to meet up. IF I'M AWAKE.
GOD HELP ME.
Listen, I'm not even demanding that some dude court me the old-fashioned way like how it's portrayed on made-for-TV ABC Family romantic comedies. You know, when the dude cooks for the chick or takes her on cute excursions, like picnics and shit. All I'm asking is that FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE someone block off some time on my calendar IN ADVANCE and commit to it. And we don't even have to do anything special! We can fucking watch Netflix. Hell, I'LL even cook for HIS lazy ass! Is this too much to ask?!?! IS IT?!?!
UGH.
I am SO OVER dating. Where the fuck is My Future Boo.
Yes, at least the Monday Night Girl gets to hang out with a man who actually bothered to make plans in advance and schedule time with her, despite the less than desirable night of the week he offered.
The Booty Text Girl, on the other hand, gets no day of the week and doesn't get to mark her calendar with "Fuck Greg on 7/6." She just goes out with her girlfriends and maybe - just MAYBE - at 2 AM she'll get a text from "her man" that says "r u awake?"
The life of a Booty Text Girl is hard. Imagine never knowing for certain when your next fuck will be, living from fuck to fuck. How does she PLAN?! Does she make her bed every night before she goes out? Does she keep a toothbrush and condoms in her purse at all times? And does she still wax every weekend even if most weekends her soft hairless pussy will go unappreciated?!
God. I'd totally DIE if I were her.
Except...I think...I...AM...her. SHITFUCKITYFUCKFUCKSHITTYFUCK!!
I've been finding that none of the men I ever "date" actually ever schedule "dates" with me. There's no "Hey, let's do dinner on Thursday. What time do you get off work?"
Instead, I get a bunch of "I'll be out with my friends, but let's try to meet up afterward, if I'm still awake." Hahahah! Can you fucking believe that shit? TRY to meet up. IF I'M AWAKE.
GOD HELP ME.
Listen, I'm not even demanding that some dude court me the old-fashioned way like how it's portrayed on made-for-TV ABC Family romantic comedies. You know, when the dude cooks for the chick or takes her on cute excursions, like picnics and shit. All I'm asking is that FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE someone block off some time on my calendar IN ADVANCE and commit to it. And we don't even have to do anything special! We can fucking watch Netflix. Hell, I'LL even cook for HIS lazy ass! Is this too much to ask?!?! IS IT?!?!
UGH.
I am SO OVER dating. Where the fuck is My Future Boo.
Friday, June 12, 2009
How a Cab Driver Drove Me to Suicide
True story (as are all stories on this blog, believe it or not). I was in a cab talking on the phone with my mom. I told her that I'm hanging out with a dude who is smart and cool. I then confessed that he's also hot, which is something that my mom HATES. She has scolded me my whole life for caring about men's looks, which she believes is totally irrelevant when it comes to picking out a boyfriend or husband. Clearly, she's an idiot. But this isn't the point of this post.
The best part of the cab ride was AFTER I hung up the phone with my mom, when my FUCKING CAB DRIVER decided to ask me about my love life and offer me advice. He said, "So you're dating someone who you think is hot?"
"Yeah, and even I'm surprised," I joked.
And what did my sage cab driver say?
"Yes, I'm sure you like him. But the problem is he probably doesn't like you!"
And then he cackled for five minutes straight. I'm so glad he was amused.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT. If you never read anything from me again, know that it's because I've literally ended my life.
The best part of the cab ride was AFTER I hung up the phone with my mom, when my FUCKING CAB DRIVER decided to ask me about my love life and offer me advice. He said, "So you're dating someone who you think is hot?"
"Yeah, and even I'm surprised," I joked.
And what did my sage cab driver say?
"Yes, I'm sure you like him. But the problem is he probably doesn't like you!"
And then he cackled for five minutes straight. I'm so glad he was amused.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT. If you never read anything from me again, know that it's because I've literally ended my life.
My Secret Calorie-Free Diet Recipe
You want to be hot enough to lock down a man? Then start losing weight.
There are a ton of diet recipes out there, but this is the one that works best for me:
Ingredient(s):
- Water
- Ice (optional)
Instructions:
1. Obtain a very large glass.
2. Fill glass with water.
3. Add ice to taste.
4. Drink entire content of glass.
5. Eat ice if you wish to chew something.
6. Repeat until full.
Have this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I promise you'll be skinny in no time! This is totally what I live on all week before I don Herve Leger.
There are a ton of diet recipes out there, but this is the one that works best for me:
Ingredient(s):
- Water
- Ice (optional)
Instructions:
1. Obtain a very large glass.
2. Fill glass with water.
3. Add ice to taste.
4. Drink entire content of glass.
5. Eat ice if you wish to chew something.
6. Repeat until full.
Have this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I promise you'll be skinny in no time! This is totally what I live on all week before I don Herve Leger.
Always the Sunday Night Girl. Never the Friday Night Girl.
Think back to your most recent dates with the dude you're currently seeing/fucking. Now try to recall the days of the week when you've seen him.
What day of the week do you see him most often? Tuesday? Thursday? Sunday?
Well, I hate to break it to you, bitches, but unless your answer is Friday or Saturday, you are totally fuuuuuuuucked!!
I'm going to share with you one of my most important goals in dating - to become the Friday Night Girl.
Yes, it matters what night of the week your man tries to see you. Men are filthy players, and most of them (well, the attractive or rich ones at least) try to date at least 3 girls at any given time, so when they manage this busy Pimpin Calendar with their normal social schedules, it means they have to be SUPER strategic about when they decide to see their whores (i.e. you).
And I'm going to break down for you exactly what each day of the week means! Find your day of the week, and I'll tell you what your man thinks about you.
Monday Night Girl: Ummm... This is awkward... How do I break this to you gently? Hmmm... HE DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU. This is the least coveted night of the week. Why do you think most restaurants don't even bother being open on Mondays? Because this is the throw away night when people are bitter about having the rest of the work week ahead of them and are no longer feeling well-rested from the weekend. A man will ask a woman out on a Monday when he's totally not sure about whether he's attracted to her. It's so easy for him to bail on a shitty date early on in the night by saying he has "a ton of work to do this week." Does that sound familiar to you? Poor thing. Try losing 10 pounds and straightening your hair so that this doesn't happen anymore.
Tuesday or Wednesday Night Girl: You're DEFINITELY one of many girls he's dating because he couldn't fit you in on any other night. You're his Plan D. He wants to keep you in the pipeline by continuing to see you on Tuesdays or Wednesdays JUST IN CASE one of his Thursday, Friday, or Saturday Night Girls bails on him. If this happens, he can totally call you - since he hasn't seen you in a few days - and ask you to hang out again. But don't get your hopes up, bitch. This is just for that one week. Just wait. The next week, you'll be having drinks on a motherfuckin Tuesday again! Oh how easily status comes and goes...
Thursday Night Girl: He thinks you're a party girl. Thursday is the best night of the week to get wasted with a date because most people don't care about being hungover or tired on a Friday. He knows you're down to get trashed on a weeknight, but he doesn't like you quite enough to bring you out on a Friday or Saturday, when he'll likely be with his friends or with someone hotter. He's also not going to stay up until 2 AM fucking you because he does want to at least make it to work the next day. But keep fucking the shit out of him because you're almost there! A couple more sessions of morning head or maybe a round of anal and you could be a Friday Night Girl in no time.
Friday Night Girl: You fucking cunt. How'd you do it? I've been trying to become someone's Friday Night Girl my ENTIRE LIFE, but it has yet to happen. This is the night when people usually go out with their friends, so if your man sacrifices a night out with his friends to be with YOU, then he's really into you. AND the Friday Night Girl almost always gets DINNER AND DRINKS! My two favorite things in life. Shit. What's your secret, you whore?! Share, damnit! Share!
Saturday Night Girl: This is basically the equivalent of the Friday Night Girl, but in a way, it's kind of better because the Saturday Night Girl also gets to have Sunday brunch with the man. DAMNIT! What could possibly beat morning sex followed by a breakfast burrito?!?! This position is so coveted that I don't even deign to dream that it could ever be me.
Sunday Night Girl: He knows he already has you. He's probably totally tired from the weekend but knows that doing something chill with you on a Sunday will be enough to get you to put out. I'm guessing you guys have watched a lot of movies on Sunday, right? Too bad. And yes, readers, this is the turd bucket in which I always find myself. The dude is so exhausted from wining, dining, and fucking other girls on Friday and Saturday that he wants to stay in with me on Sunday. Why do I even bother starving myself if this is all that life has to offer me?!?! I hate dating.
What day of the week do you see him most often? Tuesday? Thursday? Sunday?
Well, I hate to break it to you, bitches, but unless your answer is Friday or Saturday, you are totally fuuuuuuuucked!!
I'm going to share with you one of my most important goals in dating - to become the Friday Night Girl.
Yes, it matters what night of the week your man tries to see you. Men are filthy players, and most of them (well, the attractive or rich ones at least) try to date at least 3 girls at any given time, so when they manage this busy Pimpin Calendar with their normal social schedules, it means they have to be SUPER strategic about when they decide to see their whores (i.e. you).
And I'm going to break down for you exactly what each day of the week means! Find your day of the week, and I'll tell you what your man thinks about you.
Monday Night Girl: Ummm... This is awkward... How do I break this to you gently? Hmmm... HE DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU. This is the least coveted night of the week. Why do you think most restaurants don't even bother being open on Mondays? Because this is the throw away night when people are bitter about having the rest of the work week ahead of them and are no longer feeling well-rested from the weekend. A man will ask a woman out on a Monday when he's totally not sure about whether he's attracted to her. It's so easy for him to bail on a shitty date early on in the night by saying he has "a ton of work to do this week." Does that sound familiar to you? Poor thing. Try losing 10 pounds and straightening your hair so that this doesn't happen anymore.
Tuesday or Wednesday Night Girl: You're DEFINITELY one of many girls he's dating because he couldn't fit you in on any other night. You're his Plan D. He wants to keep you in the pipeline by continuing to see you on Tuesdays or Wednesdays JUST IN CASE one of his Thursday, Friday, or Saturday Night Girls bails on him. If this happens, he can totally call you - since he hasn't seen you in a few days - and ask you to hang out again. But don't get your hopes up, bitch. This is just for that one week. Just wait. The next week, you'll be having drinks on a motherfuckin Tuesday again! Oh how easily status comes and goes...
Thursday Night Girl: He thinks you're a party girl. Thursday is the best night of the week to get wasted with a date because most people don't care about being hungover or tired on a Friday. He knows you're down to get trashed on a weeknight, but he doesn't like you quite enough to bring you out on a Friday or Saturday, when he'll likely be with his friends or with someone hotter. He's also not going to stay up until 2 AM fucking you because he does want to at least make it to work the next day. But keep fucking the shit out of him because you're almost there! A couple more sessions of morning head or maybe a round of anal and you could be a Friday Night Girl in no time.
Friday Night Girl: You fucking cunt. How'd you do it? I've been trying to become someone's Friday Night Girl my ENTIRE LIFE, but it has yet to happen. This is the night when people usually go out with their friends, so if your man sacrifices a night out with his friends to be with YOU, then he's really into you. AND the Friday Night Girl almost always gets DINNER AND DRINKS! My two favorite things in life. Shit. What's your secret, you whore?! Share, damnit! Share!
Saturday Night Girl: This is basically the equivalent of the Friday Night Girl, but in a way, it's kind of better because the Saturday Night Girl also gets to have Sunday brunch with the man. DAMNIT! What could possibly beat morning sex followed by a breakfast burrito?!?! This position is so coveted that I don't even deign to dream that it could ever be me.
Sunday Night Girl: He knows he already has you. He's probably totally tired from the weekend but knows that doing something chill with you on a Sunday will be enough to get you to put out. I'm guessing you guys have watched a lot of movies on Sunday, right? Too bad. And yes, readers, this is the turd bucket in which I always find myself. The dude is so exhausted from wining, dining, and fucking other girls on Friday and Saturday that he wants to stay in with me on Sunday. Why do I even bother starving myself if this is all that life has to offer me?!?! I hate dating.
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