I'm a Dirty Secret

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!

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:

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!

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.

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!

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!

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?

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.

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.

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.

Who Wants to Date Mr. Mom? No one.

Isn’t it totally awkward catching up with people you haven’t seen since high school? I CAN’T STAND IT.

They inevitably treat me as though I’m the same person I was almost 10 years ago, and it bugs the shit out of me! GOD DAMNIT, I may not have been cool in high school, but I’m almost kinda sorta half cool now (from afar and when you’re not really listening to what I’m saying).

I’m blathering on about this because I ran into someone who used to be one of my really close friends in high school. I'm going to call him Mr. Dream On.

Mr. Dream On was one of the popular kids in high school, and he probably could have dated almost any girl he wanted. All the cutest girls in school had crushes on him. And as you all know, I was a total dork in high school whom no boy liked.

Anyhow, Mr. Dream On told me that he misses me and wants us to "HAVE KIDS TOGETHER.”

What. The. Fuck. Since when does a fucking DUDE broach the topic of "kids?!?!"

And then he offered to “STAY HOME, TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS, AND GIVE THEM PIANO LESSONS.”

Holy motherfucking shit! His crazy ass thinks he can stay home playing Mr. Mom while I'm managing a team of thousands? HELLLLLLLLL to the NO.

I tried to divert his attention by pointing out other hot girls nearby and saying he should go talk to them instead.

He then told me, “No, it's okay. I like you because of WHAT’S ON THE INSIDE.”

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?! Yeah, buddy. Thanks SO FUCKING MUCH for being able to look beyond what is apparently an unattractive exterior. I’m soooooooo grateful. As a token of my appreciation, please feel free stick your dick up my coochie now and thrust it in and out as hard as you’d like.

Attention all stupid men of the world: NEVER TELL A GIRL YOU LIKE HER BECAUSE OF WHAT'S ON THE INSIDE. This is an amateur move. Yeah, girls want to be appreciated for their intelligence, wit, etc., but we DON'T want to be told that you like us for these things IN SPITE OF THE FACT WE'RE UNATTRACTIVE.

Nope. Not gonna make a woman swoon with that one. Just lie to the bitch and toss in "pretty" or at least a cursory "cute" with all the other adjectives you actually mean. Geeze. You fucking lie to us about SO MANY THINGS. Would it KILL you to lie in this situation, too?! I think not.

So just do it, damnit. Tell me I'm "beautiful."

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!

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...

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.

I Hate Bus Stops. And Men. And Especially Men at Bus Stops.

When people find out that I’ve never had a boyfriend, their response is almost always, “Really? Why not? Are you too picky?”

What the FUCK is that supposed to mean? “Too picky” would imply that I have unreasonable standards, and I most certainly do not. I can’t help it that all the men in my “love life” have been total weird-asses!

Seriously, you’ve read the stories about my dates. And those are the men whom I’ve actually agreed to meet. Can you imagine the creeps who don’t even make it that far?

For those of you who lack imagination, I’ll give you an example that demonstrates the general caliber of the men who hit on me.

Last night, I waited alone at a bus stop after leaving a Halloween party. There were about 4 benches available, and they were all completely empty. I plopped down on one and began silently judging everyone who walked by.

A tall black man, whom I will call BJ, approached the bus stop (the rationale behind this name will be revealed shortly). BJ looked for a place to sit, and SAT DOWN RIGHT NEXT TO ME. God damnit! Three other empty benches of course this MoFo needs to sit down next to me! This doesn’t sound that bad, but let me tell you more about him.

First off, he was clad in all ivory pimp suit – including a ridiculous fedora and gaudy loafers. Was this his Halloween costume? No. No, it was not, as he informed me that he had just come from an “audition.” I don’t even want to know what the hell one auditions for at 1 fucking AM over the weekend.

Second, he had a grill. Yes, I actually just typed the words “HE HAD A GRILL.” You know, as in GOLD TEETH with jewels on it. GREAT. Nothing’s hotter than a 45 year-old man with rhinestones in his fucking mouth.

Third, I overheard his telephone conversation, where he made plans to meet his friends “at the KFC.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I was sitting next to a living breathing ghetto black guy caricature.

And I’m not even done yet. Lastly, as soon as BJ had initially sat down next to me, he fucking busted out BEEF JERKEY and snacked up a storm as he was spitting his game! Yes, he literally ATE beef jerkey the ENTIRE TIME he was hitting on me!!! Now you know why he will now forever be known as “BJ” (for those of you who know me well, you know that a man eating beef jerkey would normally be a turn on for me as I love seasoned, well-preserved animal products; however, in combination with the grill and head-to-toe matching, it became unacceptable).

And I was stuck at the fucking bus stop with BJ for over 20 minutes because there were no buses and no cabs and the universe hates me. I wanted to throw myself off the bridge. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I was wearing a ridiculous pirate costume, and I like to imagine that I’ll die with dignity someday.

Anyhow, BJ would NOT stop asking me questions (You got a man? Where you goin? Were you at the Timbaland concert?), DESPITE the fact that I had my damn BACK turned to him the ENTIRE TIME. Who the HELL talks to a girl’s back?!?! God, get some pride!

I loathe my love life.

So. Do any of you still want to tell me that I’m too picky?

Yeah, thought so. Bitches.

Proclamation to All Homosexual Men

To All Homosexual Men:

Please stop "romantically" pursuing me. Though I adore your fawning over my Giuseppe Zanotti boots and your willingness to drop $100 on a French meal at the drop of a hat, our time spent together is not "dating." This is because you are a homosexual. Some of you may not realize it yet, but you are.

I feel that I am partially to blame for I am such a swinging good time that it's probably easy to confuse your pleasure from being with me with romantic affection. Also, my own repulsion toward physical contact with men often drives me to stand as far away from you as possible, which only contributes to your comfort in knowing that a kiss is eons away for, subconsciously, you don't want to kiss me. Finally, I must admit that my voice is rather deep and manly, and the content of my words is neither ladylike nor feminine, providing yet another avenue with which to confuse you.

But your admiration is misplaced. You want to worship me, give me decorating tips, and laugh at my jokes. You would rather fondle an apple martini than my breasts. You want to give blowjobs. Your hair is prettier than mine. Your jokes are funnier. All because you are a homosexual.

And what has driven me to write such a declaration today? The same thing that has driven all of my crazy rants on this blog -- a truly vexatious dating experience.

Today's Homosexual Admirer of Mine (H.A.M.) is a man who looks, walks, and talks like a gay, but who refuses to give up on the dream of dating me. This is how he asked me out on our first date:

• He left me a voicemail at around 11 AM.
• When I did not respond by 12:30 PM, he texted me, "Hey, did you receive the voicemail about going out tonight?"
• I finally got around to texting him back (for I am a busy career woman), and he set the plan by texting "Let's grab drinks and then ride in my new hot air balloon to Tokyo. Bring a warm jacket, toiletries, and enough food for a 3 week voyage."
  

For the LOVE of ALL THINGS GAY... WHY?!?!?!

At the end of our first date, he leaned in for a kiss, which forced me to awkwardly turn my cheek to avoid the locking of our lips. I vowed to myself that this would be my last date with H.A.M.

Then, H.A.M. called me and asked me out again. He TRICKED me by calling from his work phone, so I answered and, being the people-pleasing, gracious girl that I am, was unable to reject the suggestion that we meet for drinks. We did so, and the date ended in exactly the same manner as the first. I vowed to myself AGAIN that this would be my last date with H.A.M.

Then, H.A.M. called me and left me a rambling voicemail about The Dark Knight, which we had both planned on seeing, though not together. He described the movie as being "amaaaaaaaaaazing on like, SOOOO many levels." This voicemail sealed H.A.M.'s fate. It confirmed yet again that H.A.M. had an unmistakable, incredibly gay accent that is the harbinger of Prada dress shirts and anal lubricant. So I knew I had to end things once and for all.

And how did I do so? The way any mature, dignified woman would. I sent H.A.M. a text message telling him a lie that I'd met someone else. Ahhhhh! Thank you, technology, for once again shielding and distancing me from live human interaction!!!

Of course, H.A.M. called me again because he, like many gays before him, is obsessed with me. I let the call go to voicemail, so he left a message telling me that he still wanted to be friends and keep in touch. OF COURSE!! This was of no surprise to me, though the request, like my insatiable appetite for pizza and vodka, will never be fulfilled.

Thank you, gays, for your time. I love you all. Just not like that. You don't know me like that.


LESSONS LEARNED:
-- Never give a homo your phone number (for romantic purposes. Definitely do so for interior design, fashion, hair, food, alcohol, and everything else in life).
-- If a man uses the words "hot air balloon," he is a homosexual because "hot air balloon" is a metaphor for "scrotum."

Taxi Cab Lovin

The other night, I left Ambassador, where I'd been drinking with a friend after work. Well, she was drinking, and I was playing with her iPhone and ignoring her completely -- the same way every man in every bar ignores me.

Fortunately, not all was lost that night because I stepped into a cab where the driver began our drive with the question, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

YES. We all know what that question means --> I want to do you, but I have no idea how to start a conversation with you.

So I began thinking to myself, "GOD DAMNIT why do I live so far from Ambassador?!"

I assured the cab driver that I was certain we'd never met before. He then told me that he was on his way somewhere but picked me up because I was "so beautiful." Scoff. Puke.

He then proceeded to tell me all about himself. He drives only on the weekends because he's actually a writer. He's written a book that he usually brings along with him when he drives because he sells at least 4 copies each night. Oh yeah. He's also a rapper who freestyles.

He then handed me a flyer and told me I should watch him freestyle next Thursday night at some bar I've never heard of. I was like, "Yeahhhhh... I don't really go out on weeknights."

His response? "Well for you, I'd freestyle for FREE. Anytime."

My response? Silence.

I did NOT want my cab driver to start freestyling to me during what felt like a torturously long odyssey home. Thankfully, before he could start, we arrived at my house. Fortune was on my side for the first time. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Before I left, the cab driver introduced himself to me and shook my hand. His words were, "My name is MC Mars." OMFG. MC Mars.

Oh yeah. One more thing...

The best part...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

Click here to see my cab driver.

The Mack is Back

Reader(s):

After a 1-month hiatus from the treacherous world of blogging, I'm back, and I'm better than ever!!!

First of all, yes, I meant to describe "blogging" and not "dating" as being treacherous because I thought I was going to get fired from my job when my stat counter started telling me that people (whom I thought = compliance and/or senior management) were logging onto my blog from my company headquarters. This is a scary thought for someone who lives month-to-month.

Second, I'm better than ever because I'm hoping to switch to a new job soon -- one where I will be able to blog all I want about whatever my onyx heart desires.

So what have I been up to since I last wrote? Drinking. Lots of drinking.

Also, I've just re-written my online dating profile with hopes of attracting new men, and it seems to be working! Fat old geezers with yellow fever from Florida and the UK are already reaching out to me. What could be a more ideal match for a mid-20s girl from Silicon Valley? I suspect that there will be many new dates and perhaps my first real boyfriend (which I define as a man going on 5 dates with me) to come!

But just to catch you up on some of my recent drama, let me tell you about a phone call that I recently had. A guy called me one evening and introduced himself by saying he was "X from [name of company where he works]," so I started freaking out because I thought that I'd scheduled a phone interview for a job about which I'd totally forgotten.

So I played along, although I was confused. I asked him, "I can't remember emailing you, but do we have an appointment to speak right now?"

He then sounded even MORE CONFUSED than I and said, "No, do I need an appointment to call you? I thought we had agreed we'd speak this weekend."

That's when I was reminded for the one millionth time why I hate my life. It dawned on my idiot self that this call was not about a job -- this was about a FUCKING DATE! This was someone whom I'd met through an online dating website with whom I'd previously agreed to chat. And I must have sounded like the biggest BITCH EVER by asking him if he had a fucking APPOINTMENT to speak with me!!! Can you imagine how you'd feel if someone you were courting said that to you?!?!

I wanted to die. I literally wanted to die. BUT it was also HIS fucking fault for introducing himself in such an idiotic way. DAMNIT. Who does that? We're talking about getting to know each other romantically, and he's fucking introducing himself to me like we're supposed to be networking! Why why WHY!??!!?

Whatever. The rest of the conversation was pretty normal except for that fact that he dropped the F bomb, which is a bit weird to do on the phone with a girl whom you've never met, right? I know. I'm the biggest fucking hypocrite ever. I can't even thank my mom for cooking dinner without dropping the F bomb ("Mom, this fucking bun thit nuong is so fucking good! Gimme some more of this shit!").

Anyhow, going forward, I'm going to refer to this new dude as F Bomb. F Bomb and I are going to hang out this week, which means that there will probably be [horrible, humiliating] details to come.


LESSONS LEARNED:
-- Nothing. I think that I was totally right in every way in this particular situation.

This is why you don't join the Peace Corps.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm branding myself as the next Oprah, only I'm young, I'm humble, and I'm unable (which you must distinguish from "unwilling") to publish a photo of my face anywhere (as I prefer to only get beaten up if it's part of "role playing"). Also, I, unlike O, realize that building schools for underprivileged girls is less important than talking to them about the importance of getting laid frequently and by the hottest man possible (please notice how I said "man" and not "men" as I also emphasize the lesson of Not Being a Ho).

So, as a humanitarian, I volunteer frequently. No. Wait. Come to think of it, perhaps I can only say that I dabble in volunteer work on occasion. No. Hmmmm.... Really, I think that I may have only volunteered once in my life, and it's the story I'm about to tell you.

I recently convinced my girlfriends to work at a charity benefit as hostesses. Basically, there's a group of middle-aged "bachelors" who regularly throws parties and then donates the money to The Ronald McDonald Foundation. We agreed to work at one of these parties, which involved sitting at a table, welcoming guests, and collecting their donations. Meanwhile, the "bachelors" kept our champagne glasses full. I know, I TOTALLY rough it when I volunteer. I mean, it's WAY more uncomfortable feeling gassy due to consuming 2 bottles of champagne than it is picking up a damn soda can off the beach. Puh-leeeease.

Anyhoo, one of these middle-aged "bachelors," whom I will call Pervy Viet Man, took a liking to one of my friends, whom I will call Alice. Alice is an attractive, fit, highly-educated girl in her early-20s. Pervy Viet Man is a 40-something year-old, overweight, balding, 5'4" Vietnamese man with a thick Vietnamese accent. For those of you from the square states who have never before heard a Vietnamese accent, let me tell you something -- it is perhaps the least attractive accent on the planet. The intonations are somewhat similar to the sound of elephants mating. [Sorry, Phuong and Lan (my Vietnamese manicurists).]

I'd like to share with you the email that Pervy Viet Man sent Alice after the event:

Hi, this is [Pervy Viet Man] from the XXX Bachelors Club. How are you doing skinny? Still clubbing with your friends?

Couple things I want to ask you:
1) The next party is at the XXX Club in XXX on June 29. Can you help? I know it's a long drive so you can stay over night at my house in XXX if you want. I'll let you have my master bedroom and king size bed. We don't send out invite yet until 2 weeks before the party. You're the first to know.

2) Summer is here I'm looking for somebody in the city to walk with to get more exercise as opposed to hitting the golf course over the weekend. Care to join me sometime? Your lunch is on me.

That email is officially the LAST MOTHERFUCKING THING any girl would want to find in her inbox. An email that announced the death of her ENTIRE fucking family by gunshots to their faces would actually CHEER HER UP after that creepy ass bullshit email!

Please, if any of you have EVER received a creepier email, forward it to me immediately and I will pay you $1 million. Or I'll post it on my blog. I know that both options would be equally rewarding to you, particularly given my widespread readership.


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Volunteering is for suckers.
   

Craigie Awards: Photo Submissions

Hello, dear reader(s).

As part of my Masochistic Craigslist Experiment, I will be presenting awards, which I will call Craigies, to the unwitting respondents of my Craigslist ad.

I will first begin with Craigies awarded for photo submissions. Please note that while I'm ABSOLUTELY DYING (seriously DYYYYYYING) to post the actual photos I received in order to better tell the stories and also add a color besides pink to this vagtastic-looking blog, I think that posting photos would be heinously bitchy because stupidity and ugliness do not justify such cruelty. But DO NOT for one fucking second take this rare act of kindness on my part to be a sign of weakness because, in addition to being delightfully charming, I'm unbreakable. UNBREAKABLE.

• Most Annoying Photo: One dude sent me a photo of himself in a MASQUERADE MASK. Psst! Phantom of the Opera! I can still tell YOU ARE UGLY.
  

• Most Repulsive Outfit: A man with an afro sent me a picture of himself wearing a purple, leopard-print, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. No, I did not pull those adjectives out of a grab bag of synonyms for BUTT UGLY CLOTHING DESCRIPTIONS. What this shirt needed was flames on it. Not printed flames. Real flames. Engulfing it. Like in Backdraft. And I'm hoping for his sake that somewhere in the background of this photo there sits a faithful seeing eye dog that explains this "situation" (not that that would stop me from mocking and spitting on him or kicking his dog for not doing its job). Oh, by the way. This wasn't a candid shot where he was out with his friends at one of those "unbelievably creative, unique, and rare" Pimps and Hos parties that is the theme of EVERY OTHER FUCKING PARTY IN THE WORLD. No. This was a fucking posed, "professional" studio photo, so planning, time, money, AND delusions actually went into this bullshit picture. Let us offer a moment of silence for his penis, which has never before felt the soft, warm touch of a vaginal wall. Amen.
  

• Most Idiotic Mistake: One guy sent me two photos. In one, he looked hot and athletic in a basketball jersey -- totally bangable. In another, he looked like he'd spent the past 4 years eating fried, chocolate-dipped hippopotamus lardballs. Now, which is probably the more recent one? Yes, even the idiots among us (god why are there so many of you) know that we generally pack ON the pounds as we age. What was Tubbo McDoritos thinking?!!? Why the FUCK would I give a mother fuck if he USED TO BE FIT? Why the FUCK is he showing me what he WOULD HAVE LOOKED LIKE if he hadn't let himself go?!?! Do 47 year-old cougars try to pick up men by saying that they USED TO BE 17? Would I date a merely middle-class man who USED TO BE A BILLIONAIRE? Fuck no! Fucking grow a brain.
  

• Most Likely to Live with His Mother: Hmm... now WHAT on EARTH would possess me to think such a thing? Could it be because he sent me AN ENTIRE FUCKING PHOTO ALBUM OF PHOTOS OF HIM AND HIS DEAR MOTHER?!!!? Hey, Mama's Boy! Here's the typical order of events: 1st date where YOU PAY --> numerous other fun/romantic/creative/adventurous dates over the course of months/years --> asteroid-sized rock on my left finger --> introduction to your family where mommy dearest sits down and TORTURES me with your LAME ASS family albums as I feign interest about what an adorable boy you once were!!!
  

• Most Unnecessary Special Effects: One picture completely confused me because of its weird editing that added NO VALUE whatsoever. He took a photo of himself and then cut out the picture of his head and then pasted it slightly to the right of his body. As you can imagine, THERE IS NO APPARENT FUCKING REASON FOR THIS other than to show he has delusions that looking disembodied would get me off. HEY, FUCKOFF, nowhere in my ad did I mention, "BTW, my full name is Hannibal Lecter."

• Best Movie Impersonation: Ever see The Blair Witch Project? Remember how CREEPY AS FUCK the characters looked when they would turn the camera on themselves in the darkness, with only the tiniest bit of light shining onto their frightened, shadowy faces? Yeah, so how do you think I felt when I opened my goddamn EMAIL hoping to see an Abercrombie-Like Adonis only to have some FUCKED UP BLAIR WITCH MOTHER FUCKER LEERING AT ME?!?! SHIIIIIIIIIIT! I almost started crying (I never actually cry for I'm incapable of tears and most feminine emotions). I thought the freak was going to seriously come flying out of my laptop, kill me with a stick, and hang my half-eaten corpse from a tree in the wilderness. I still can't believe I live to tell this story. I now know exactly how cancer survivors feel, and beating death validates something that I've always believed -- that I really WAS put on this earth to mock and judge others and that I am meant to continue doing so for decades to come. And this is a blessing to us all.
  

• Most Age Inappropriate Suitor: I couldn't believe it, but a fucking GREAT GREAT GREAT GRANDFATHER responded to my ad. I actually read through his entire email hoping to read a story about how he used to sip tea with George Washington. To make matters worse, Father Time was wearing a fanny pack and about 45 extra pounds around his midsection. I don't even know how he was standing upright on his own. Suuuure, geezer, you're just "leaning" on that fucking pole. I bet you're hiding a defibrillator behind that damn tree, too! Are you also going to tell me how proud you are of your great great grandson, Alexandros, King of Macedon?! And is your baby picture found somewhere among the Lescaux Cave Paintings? Here's some handy advice: if someone is so fucking old he used to WALK ACROSS WHAT WE NOW CALL "THE PACIFIC OCEAN," a photo is utterly meaningless in his pursuit of a girl in her 20s. Either email proof that you are worth over $100 million or fuck off.

If you think I'm giving you dirty looks, it's because I am.

I agreed to meet a guy for coffee. He wasn't just any guy. He was a DOCTOR, so I already went into this date thinking that this guy would have to fuck up BIG TIME in order to not get a second date. I was almost blinded by the halo surrounding his head when I first laid eyes upon him. Am I a gold digger? No, but I'm tired of dating men who live with their parents or haven't read a book since Green Eggs and Ham (although it is a masterpiece).

We sit down to chat, and the doctor begins loudly questioning me with Awkward First Date Questions that cue in every fucking customer to the fact that we're on a first date, which I find completely horrifying and unnatural. So henceforth, I will call him Dr. Loud Fuckup. Anyhow, I try to answer his questions with a low volume in order to see if he will respond as any normal person would, which would be to also lower their volume. But of course, because this is MY LIFE, he's completely oblivious and continues peppering me with his Awkward First Date Questions loudly enough for me to check my phone to make sure there isn't a 17th person who is listening in on this mess.

Dr. Loud Fuckup tells me about his life, and I must admit, it is FABULOUS. He works only 3 days a week and owns houses all over the place. He also has really exciting hobbies, like helicopter snowboarding. But as this freakshow is telling me these stories, he does so with his ridiculously loud voice that has become a complete distraction to me. My irritation grows to anger, and when I am angry, it's obvious because my face is the mirror into my black soul.

Interestingly, Dr. Loud Fuckup actually PICKS UP on the fact that I am giving him the look of death every time he speaks because he actually called me out on it OVER THREE TIMES by saying, "Oh my god! Stop giving me such a dirty look!" While it is odd (and surprisingly refreshing) for me to be called out for being a total bitch, I'm relieved because at least I know that once this dreadful date is over, I'll never have to see or hear this monster again.

WRONG!

Cut to 3 days later when I receive a call from a number not yet in my phonebook. I let my curiosity get the best of me and actually pick up only to hear, hollering at the top of his lungs as usual, on the other end of the line Dr. Loud Fuckup himself! He fucking tricked me by calling from another number! AND he called me to hang out again even though I sat there during our date imagining ways I'd like to witness his death. WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THE WORLD?


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. In order to reject a man, you must do more than just shoot him consistent venomous looks throughout the date. You must actually use the words, "I absolutely hate you. Never call me again. Thanks for the coffee though. Toot-a-loo!" (Men like when you are thankful when they pay)
   
2. Don't pick up the phone when an unknown number calls because most likely it is a sneaky and unusually loud doctor trying to trick you into talking to him again.
3. Meet for dates in places that are very loud, just in case your date happens to sound like he is talking into a megaphone at all times. This way, the Awkward First Date Questions will be drowned out by all of the hullabaloo of the environment.