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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
