Take It Like a Man!

I recently met a guy whom I thought had some potential. He’s funny, smart, and cute. AND he’s geographically desirable (I LOVE when the walk of shame is < 2 blocks…ahhh…brings me back to my college days of returning home from frat row at 8 AM).

Unfortunately, however, this dude who piqued my interest wasn’t as excited about me, which I learned in quite a direct way when he pulled me aside one evening while we were out for drinks with a group and said, “I think you’re really beautiful, smart, and funny, but I’m not ready for a relationship right now. I completely crushed my ex-girlfriend, and I’m still getting over it.”

FUUUUUUUUUCK! I knew that was the kiss of death. It’s the exact type of copout rejection that they warn you about in He’s Just Not That Into You.

So how did I take it?

First, let me step back for a moment and tell you something: I almost never get rejected by men.

I’m sure you’re wondering how this is possible, coming from a girl who has NEVER HAD A BOYFRIEND OR BEEN ON MORE THAN 3 DATES IN HER LIFE. Is this because I’m gorgeous? Hell no. Is this because I’m rich? God, I wish. Is this because I’m unbelievably witty and incredibly charming? No, but that was the best guess so far.

So why, then, am I so rarely rejected? Because in order to get rejected by someone, you have to actually LIKE THEM first, and I ALMOST NEVER meet anyone I like!! By now, you’ve read the painful details about the men I usually encounter, so you shouldn’t be completely shocked to learn that, literally, only about once a year, do I come across a man who is funny, intelligent, cute, and cool enough for me to actually want to sacrifice my precious hours of sleep to be with him (I say “sleep” because, obviously, if I were dating someone funny, intelligent, cute, AND cool, I’d be fucking his brains out every night).

So back to my very recent rejection. How did I respond? Well, let’s just say that I’m still trying to wipe the ASTONISHED look off my face.

Yes, that’s right, bitches! I just said “ASTONISHED” – not “sad,” “dejected,” or “melancholy.”

I said “astonished” – because I can’t stop asking myself, “What the FUCK is wrong with him?!?! Is he fucking blind? Deaf? Retarded? Does he think someone like me will EVER come around again?!?!”

And that, my friends, is how you TAKE REJECTION LIKE A MAN!

I’m totally over responding to rejection like an insecure, weak woman. No more asking, “Why did he reject me? What’s wrong with me? What did I do wrong? Should I have put out sooner/later? Do I need to get better at giving blowjobs? Am I not pretty? Do I need to lose weight? Should I have said ‘yes’ to his request for a threesome? Are my boobs too small? Did I call him too much? Should I learn to cook better?”

FUCK THAT SHIT.

It’s time for girls to take rejection like a man and ask, “WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with HIM?”

YESSSSSSSSSSS!! This is the way rejection should be handled! You ask that question, and then you MOVE ON. You don’t sit around actually trying to figure out WHY you were rejected (because you’ll NEVER EVER EVER EVER actually learn the true reasons). Nor do you start to think that there is something wrong with YOU (unless you’re addicted to drugs, you read your man’s emails, you don’t bathe daily, or you have one or more incurable STDs, in which case YES, there IS something wrong with you, you fucking crazy bitch). Just accept that, for some reason, whatever it may be, the rejecter doesn’t know how to appreciate you. In other words, it’s HIS FAULT that he doesn’t like you, NOT YOURS.

You’ll realize that this is actually an effective way to think about things if you reflect upon why YOU have rejected people in the past. I’ve personally rejected a ton of amazing guys for completely irrational and illogical reasons about which they shouldn’t waste a millisecond worrying (and I’m sure they don’t because they’re men). Really. Just think about the BS reasons why you’re not attracted to someone, and you’ll see that none of these things should be taken personally by anyone!

So yes, readers, I was rejected BIG TIME, but I believe that he’s a complete idiot for rejecting me, and I’m going to get back on the bandwagon, widen the funnel, and continue looking for a man who will fully appreciate my splendor and lavish me with the respect, admiration, and free dinners that I unequivocally deserve. Partially, this is because I want to find love, but mostly, this is because I want more blog fodder so that I can gather enough material for a book deal.

German Sausage? No Thanks.

You know what I find to be an unpleasant way to be awakened? When a man, let's call him Wishful Wurst, purposely uses his dick to slap me on the ass.

You know what I find to be even worse than that? When Wishful Wurst does that multiple times throughout the night.

You know what I find to be EVEN WORSE THAN THAT? When Wishful Wurst does that multiple times throughout the night as he’s BEGGING FOR SEX that I had already clearly told him he would NOT be getting that night.

To give you some context into my level of rage, let me tell you that I find being woken up by someone -- regardless of how it's done (even if it's via the gentle rubbing of my back, the licking of my clit, or the kissing of my neck) -- to be one of the most ANNOYING things in the world, and I only tolerate being awakened in TWO situations: (1) you are dying or (2) I am dying. Otherwise, LET ME FUCKING GET MY FULL NIGHT'S SLEEP PLEASE.

Now back to the Wishful Wurst. Who is this deluded man who thought that ass slapping with his dick would be an effective way to tantalize me? A foreigner. A German, more specifically. AND, he was even a very well-educated German (LLM, JD, MS, and MBA). Clearly, although advanced degrees are incredibly reliable indicators for income and career status, they are HORRIBLY unreliable indicators for the ability to learn about The Art of Seduction (something that I have mastered despite my lack of an advanced degree... okay, not really, but I send a MEAN FLIRTY EMAIL).

Oh yeah. One more thing. When Wishful Wurst got undressed for bed, I learned that he “only wears thongs.” I'm sorry, dudes, but this is the way the world works (everywhere except for at a male revue): thong on me = supreme hotness; thong on you = Get the fuck out of my room. This was the reason why I was completely turned off and had known instantly that I wouldn’t be putting out that night. PUHLEEASE. Wishful Wurst looked utterly preposterous.

And so I’ve decided that I’m going to stick with American men. Never did I think I’d so appreciate boxer briefs and good old-fashioned getting me drunk or roofied in order to fuck me. God bless America!

Danger: FOBS Fucking Amok

Until recently, I had nothing against Asian FOBs. I grew up with many of them, and my parents were once young Asian FOBs themselves.

But I’ve changed my mind. About the FEMALE FOBs, whom I now refer to as FOBS = Fresh Off the Boat SLUTS.

Why this sudden hatred? Because FOBS are total whores, and it’s affecting my already shitty love life!

I used to innocently wonder why I’d see hot non-Asian dudes with totally FOBby unattractive chicks, and now I know why: these bitches are FREAK-A-LEAKS! How do I know? Because I’ve heard from SEVERAL men who have a disturbing amount of experience in this area, and they’ve confirmed that these chicks will do ANYTHING to please a man. Dear God, NO ONE should do ANYTHING to please a man. Eradicating this concept should take priority over curing mother fucking cancer.

And so the lore of the Asian Fetish holds true – FOBby Asians look cute and innocent, but they actually ARE freaky, kinky, cheating whores.

Why does this affect me, despite the fact that I’m not a FOB? Because non-Asian people are totally retarded about differentiating between FOBs and non-FOBs, so when they meet me, they fucking assume that I’m willing to get breast implants and let four big white dudes gangbang me as they watch! WTF. As if!

I used to blame porn, but I now point my finger elsewhere – at the damn Japanese schoolgirl-looking hos who have never uttered the word “no” in bed. If any of you readers fall into this category, please memorize and use the following phrases the next time you’re in bed with a man (these are the things that the rest of us women don’t hesitate to utter on a regular basis):

- “Eww! Get off me! You stink.”
- “I’m not drunk enough.”
- “Not after the way I saw you checking out that dumb slut tonight.”
- “Do I look like a fucking whore to you?”
- “No. Only pornstars do that shit.”

Ummm... Excuse Me?

What is the appropriate response when a man you've just met emails you this?

Would you roleplay with me for a day, and roleplay as an escort. We would get you a nice hotel room and find older mature gentlemen (35-60 in age) to come in and fuck you for an hour. One day of total immersion role play. I'd be in the next room listening and would come visit you between appointments. And at the end of the day the ultimate role play would be over, and you'd have a couple grand in your pocket.

Why do I attract all the freaks?!?!

God I hope my dad never finds this post...

You Can't Afford Me

During a second date, my date ordered our first round of drinks, paid for the drinks, turned to me, and then said bitterly, “Gee, thanks for offering to pay!”

Obviously, he meant this sarcastically because I had not, in fact, offered to pay. Why should I have? The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was completely disgusted that he DEIGNED to say those words to me because I had PURCHASED AND COOKED all of the food ($100+ spent at Whole Foods) for our first date. But EVEN IF I HADN’T, I think he was totally in the wrong for other reasons that I will explain to you now.

I used to think that people should take turns paying for dates and that the frequency of payments should be approximately proportional to their incomes. But this was the old me, who never EVER went on any dates. I’m not trying to say I’m “experienced” now, BUT I have actually been on a few dates in the past year. Sadly, I can count all of them with my two hands, BUT there have still been enough dates to teach me something very valuable: ALWAYS MAKE THE MAN PAY.

Since I know the identity of all 9 of my readers, I can predict that at least 7 out of 9 of you are completely disgusted with that statement. But hear me out.

We all know that times is tough right now, which is why I’ve been a little more conscientious about my spending. As part of this, I began adding up the amount of money I had spent on recent dates. This is where my new insight came in: I decided to not only add up the money spent DURING dates, but also add up the money spent PREPARING FOR dates (thank you, Econ degree from top tier school...you are finally demonstrating your true value).

My earth-shattering discovery? I was shocked to learn that we, as women, spend so much money preparing for dates that it actually ends up costing SUBSTANTIALLY MORE than a damn dinner!

Here are some sample date preparation costs:

• $100 for sexy lingerie (bra + thong + any other creative accoutrements that might get your man off)
• $65 for bikini wax (w/ tip)
• $75-200 (at least, for a hot top or dress)

= over $240!

How much is a typical dinner for two with booze? Usually, NO MORE THAN $150-200!!! And don't get me started on how cheap dinners are if your man takes you out for pho, tacos, or bi bim bop.

And what do men usually do to prepare for dates? Take a shower (if you’re lucky), shave (if he has time), and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt (the same ones he was wearing before the shower).

Other things to consider:
- The ongoing costs that are required by any girl wanting to look hot:

• $65 for perfume
• $75 for make-up
• $90 for haircuts
• $45 for manicures/pedicures
• $65+/month for gym membership
• $7,000+ for breast implants (kidding)
• $300+ per pair of stilettos (not kidding)
• $100+ per pair of jeans
• $30/month for birth control

- The Glass Ceiling
- Wage inequality
- Monthly menstruation AKA 5 DAYS OF BLEEDING OUT OF OUR VAGINAS
- Carrying and conceiving babies that permanently stretch and deform our bodies
- Being valued by society almost solely based on our looks, which fade too soon, too easily, and too quickly
- Feeling guilty about everything
- Worrying about everything
- Suffering from low self esteem regardless of what anyone tells us


So I’ve decided that I will no longer offer to pay for any of my dates, unless my dude wants me showing up with no makeup on and in granny panties and a t-shirt -- with a hairy pussy underneath.

I think it’s perfectly fair, don’t you?


P.S. For those of you who think that your girlfriend doesn't need to spend that much to look good, just remember that you get what you pay for. It's okay. I realize that not every man can afford to date a bangin' hot girl who consistently wears smokin' outfits and who gets stared at by all other men and women in the room. You can't all be Tom Brady or Leonardo DiCaprio. If all you can afford is a kinda cute girl who dresses just okay, then that's cool. You just need to accept it.

To Cuddle or Not to Cuddle

I wouldn’t describe myself as a “cuddler.” And I’m not talking about the cuddling you do on the sofa while watching The Notebook with your significant other. I’m talking about We Just Banged and Now We’re Cuddling cuddling. For some reason, after sex, I just prefer to not be touched. I just want to sleep, thanks. I find that this helps me pretend that what just happened never actually transpired.

So post sex the other night, when my hookup mentioned that he had to be at work early the next day, I was more than happy to say, “Oh. You can totally just go to sleep now. That’s fine with me. I’m tired, too.”

If my love life were even half as dysfunctional as it actually is, what would have happened next is that my hookup would have thanked me, rolled over, and started snoring within minutes.

But no, that is NOT what occurred. If you’ve been reading my blog, then even YOU know better than to believe that that’s what unfolded next.

So what DID happen?

The dude
- GOT UP,
- PUT ON HIS CLOTHES, and
- BOUNCED.

He lives 2 blocks from me.

It was 11:30 PM.

OMG.

Fuck. My. Life.


LESSONS LEARNED:
- Clearly state the following after every hookup: “I don’t care if you want to go home. You’re staying here and sleeping next to me, despite the fact that I don’t want you touching me or speaking to me. See you in the morning. Good night. Asshole. Oh yeah. We’re still doing brunch in the morning, too.”

Why Me, BoBs? Why Me?

During a recent walk to work, I noticed a Coca-Cola delivery van cruise unusually slowly by me as the driver, BoB, leered at me. Although I was creeped out by this, I didn’t really think anything of it because (1) I was wearing 5” heels, (2) I always get hollered at when I wear 5” heels, and (3) I realize that if I wear 5” heels, then I’m just asking to get hollered at or honked at while walking down the street.

So I kept tottering on my merry way to work and was relieved when I realized that the Coca-Cola van had pulled over. Thank goodness BoB had to stop to make a delivery!

No, “BoB” is not a typo for “Bob.” “BoB” means BOTTOM OF THE BARREL, and BoBs are the only kind of men who ever notice that I’m alive!!!

Now where was I? Oh yes, Coca-Cola BoB. I continued walking toward my office when I started to hear footsteps approach me. It was Coca-Cola BoB. Please let it be a coincidence that he’s walking in the same direction, I thought.

But then he caught up to me. And started talking to me. Of course.

To set the scene for you, allow me to describe BoB for you, with the rich, illustrative details you’ve come to expect from my dexterous writing (ahhh… stroking my ego is the one thing in life that never tires, bores, or fails me).

BoB was likely in his early 50s, and he was a corpulent man who had clearly let himself go at least 25 years prior, as evidenced by his alarmingly gargantuan barrel of a beer belly that one does not just awake with after a mere 10 years or so of heavy beer drinking – not even the “binge” type of which I, myself, am particularly fond. BoB also had completely gray hair – approximately 7-9 strands, that is, which were scattered chaotically about the crown of his wrinkled, age-spotted crown. Additionally, I would describe BoB as appearing squatty, as though someone had sawed off approximately 1/3 of what should have been his legs. Basically, calling him a TROLL would be an UNDERSTATEMENT! HE was a creature that the TROLL COMMUNITY would turn into a hideous little doll and put on their own damn shelves as a fucking joke!

Now back to the scintillating conversation in which BoB thought it would be wise to engage me.

“Hey! I like your shoes! It must be hard to walk in those!”

“Umm.. yeah, I guess.”

“So where do you work?”

“Around here.”

“So what do you do?”

“Tech stuff.”

“Must be tough now, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Blah blah blah. There was more that I’m not going to bother trying to recall.

By now you’re wondering WHY THE FUCK I ACTUALLY SPOKE TO THIS STALKER, so please let me remind you of something – I WAS WEARING FUCKING 5” HEELS!

Therefore, it was PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE for me to walk quickly or run to get away from Coca-Cola BoB. I might as well have been chained to the earth as I was completely handicapped and forced to converse with BoB until I could finally duck into a goddamn building 1 ENTIRE block later. Yes, I actually glimpsed a few moments of the life in Hell that awaits me.

For the first time in my life, I cursed my exquisite Fendi platforms. It felt so wrong to loathe something so beautiful and perfectly handcrafted (in Italy), but I couldn’t help myself! What was once a harmless sexy shoe transformed into a constraining weapon of agony and torture. THEY were the reason why I was forced to talk to a LECHEROUS CREEPY MONSTER! Oh the agony.

My life is SO HARD. Ugh! (This is where you, readers, feel sorry for me).


LESSONS LEARNED:
- Change into your patent leather, 5” platform stripper shoes AFTER you arrive at work, where it’s perfectly safe and appropriate to be wearing such shoes.