Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Since my very two-dimensional and pathetic experience with Mr. Texas, (I’m really, REALLY trying to sound more grounded, less bitter and more introspective) I could say that I’ve learned a few things when it comes to online dating:
- Zero investment prior to the actual date. By “zero investment,” I mean NO expectations, NO excitement and NO whatever other inexplicable fucking feeling.
- “Talking” to as many guys as possible. Focusing on just ONE guy instead of e-frolicking around with many potential suitors is a no-no. Just no-FUCKING-no.
- Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Sketchiness and shadiness paint the perfect picture of this online dating business. He could disappear and completely just vanish in thin air at any given moment in time, without a single explanation or reason, defying all laws of physics and nature and logic. Oh well.
I’m 3 days in and I can’t seem to understand how I am having a fucking deja-fucking-vu. I swear.
I’m filtering away through the masses of losers and douchebags, creepsters and just awkward-looking and sounding dudes. I mean, it’s just a MESS. Some are hot, but their profiles are super lame; some have some kick-ass profiles, but what they’re working with in the looks department just isn’t doing it for me. And the rare few that SEEM to (dear Lord, may I dare say it?) HAVE IT ALL (gasp) give off a very conceited and “my-shit-don’t-stink” vibe, which I really don’t have time for and overall, I am too proud sometimes to be the first one to initiate contact.
So, as motherfucking always, something’s gotta give. (WHY? WHY THE FUCK DOES IT HAVE TO GIVE?!)
Anyways, after what seemed to be a witty and sarcastic email exchange in the beginning with a decent-looking dude from a neighboring town (that ended abruptly due to his inability to understand my humor and sarcastic personality – really, I totally need a sarcasm font – he sounded like a total tool, whose exact words were, “I’m looking for someone with a sense of humor, who can dish it out and take it as well. I think you take things a little too seriously.”
Uhh, his moronic ways clearly failed him miserably, and I don’t have the time and patience to explain e-misunderstandings. Also, if I have to EXPLAIN myself to you, I don’t care if it’s really a misunderstanding or whatever, it’s a deal breaker for me because it SCREAMS inability to interpret witty, sarcastic banter. He later blamed them on the fact that “messages and IM’s suck.” No, buddy. I think YOU suck – the longest parenthesis ever, but whatever) my superb e-navigational skills led me to a 30-year-old, 6’1 (swoooooooooon) hunk with a simple, but funny as hell profile.
Seriously, those are the ones that get me. Just be FUCKING HONEST. Be REAL. Admit that you have flaws. Don’t sit there and type all these motherfucking great qualities about yourself. I am seriously not impressed to read ANY of that shit. It makes me want to laugh and puke and then laugh and puke some more because virtually ALL men have the same exact things to say. Stand the fuck out. Seriously.
I know that there is only so much that you can pick up from a profile; after all, it’s still composed of just words on a screen. No matter how hard one tries to interpret them, the profiles, much like the people writing them, remain two-dimensional.
So, back to the 6’1, 30-year-old hunk. I will call him The Pitbull, due to the simple fact that he is ¼ Cuban, and since I am absolutely in love with the singer, I found it highly appropriate and slightly annoyingly cute.
In my own, typical impetuous, slightly crude way, I didn’t hesitate sending him a short message – half making fun of, half complimenting his profile. He responded a few hours later, not only beautifully reciprocating my snazzy and sarcastic comment, but also “giving me a present” – DIGIIIIITS, bitches. He did it in such a sly way though, that in no way did it come across as creepy or overwhelming.
Deja-vu with this guy all over again. He’s funny and witty and gets my humor and I feel him reeling me in, but it just won’t happen.
More later. My brain hurts.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The truth is that I’ve been doing NONE of the above. Work is meh, no classes of any kind (yet), I’ve been totally inactive in my community (although I signed up to volunteer as a “court appointed special advocate” for abused and neglected kids – sounds so fancy, but I’m probably going to hell for not taking up a case yet), and I most certainly have NOT been busy screwing anyone’s brains out. (not TOO busy, that is, but ahem—whatever, whatever.)
Perhaps the lack of the latter action has made me slightly bitchier this past month than my normal bitchy self. Perhaps not. One definite reason in particular has been dealing with RIDICULOUS individuals via text messaging.
No, I’m not talking about anyone I “met” online. (Yes, I’m done with online dating.)
No, I’m not talking about Mr. Texas. (The sick thing is a teeny, tiny part of me almost wishes I were…*vomit*)
This is a story about a man. (Surprise, surprise.)
A *gasp* MARRIED man. I will call him “Desperate Married Man.” (DMM)
DMM and I met in college. He was funny and goofy. Short, with glasses, he was nothing to write home about. Not my type at all—you get the gist. He’d be hardly a C-/D+ in my book. “Funny” and “goofy” are really the ONLY two BEST, most accurate adjectives I can use to describe him. There was never any sort of chemistry between us (on my part) and when I’d see him in school (thumbs down for going to a commuter college) I’d give him a high five and a “what up!” That was preeeeetty much the extent of the friendship (on my part), and at times, we’d just talk and bullshit about nothingness in between classes, with people we both knew, etc.
Oddly enough, his funniness and goofiness and all the high fives and the “what up’s” made me take a trip one weekend ‘round DMM’s neck of the woods. No big deal—we were just gonna hang out and go to the movies. We did just that, but somehow, someway, we swapped some spit. (OK, so I wasn’t totally into him, but I was a bit of a kissing whore, shut up.) No big deal—nothing else happened. I went home and about my (cool, important, fabulous) business.
This was circa 2006-2007. (But I’m pretty sure it was 2006ish.)
So yes, we now fast-forward 5-6 years. YEARS.
I have had the same phone number since my very first cell phone, so I’ve managed to keep in contact with quite a few people. DMM and I never really exchanged many text messages before. Facebook also wasn’t grounds for a lot of contacting. So once graduated, naturally, we lost contact.
He messaged me a few times, just making small talk, asking how I was doing and where was I working and such. No big deal.
In the meantime, (name) became a MM (married man). Very nice, thanks Facebook, for letting me know.
Recently, he got into contact yet again. NO BIG DEAL.
I’m not entirely sure at which point MM (Married Man) became DMM (Desperate Married Man).
But he just did. Also creepy and annoying as shit.
OH, like at this point:
It’s been YEARS. Like, seriously? I cannot even believe this type of shit. AND he’s LYING about it. I want to laugh, but I seriously just want to punch him in the face.
So at this point, I’m trying hard to put an end to this back-and-forth texting nonsense, but it just continues:
I clearly just don’t find this shit appealing in the slightest. Fuck off.
(Side note: As I progress with the post and with the fabulous posting of my beloved iPhone text messages, I need to really stress the fact that this has just been a really annoying experience, overall. There is no secret ego-boost behind this or any sort of “subconscious”-I-hate-to-admit-that-I-really-do-sort-of-like-you, sexual tension, chemistry attraction of ANY KIND, whatsoever. None. This is your typical Bitch-on-Wheels rant to the universe and its unfair ways about how you’re always going to be chased by the one who you DO NOT WANT. *flips off Universe*)
The creepiness continues.
He said some dumb shit after, but I just ignored him.
I’m failing to mention the fact that he also loves BJs and his sweet, little wife just sucks at, well… sucking, apparently, and that he’s been trying to “teach” her how to not use her teeth for quite some time now. WOW. Just wow.
This is where I decided he needs to be completely ignored/have his number blocked.
(I have cut the message and snapped the pic of it quite appropriately, providing just enough information for you to understand where he was coming from with it…)
(I must have hit “Copy” by mistake as I was taking the pic; I think it was the universe’s way of telling me to never respond to a single text from this guy again.)
I have no words to describe what I was thinking. I just felt overall disrespected, disgusted, freaked out, insulted, and annoyed. His reaction?
DMM: “Why? Lol I think it should be a compliment.”
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? Who talks like that?! I mean, if you have leverage and have been building some sort of rapport with, let’s say, a FwB or something, SURE – fire away.
But a MARRIED man, a sexually-frustrated, pathetic, desperate married man, who, 1) tells me he thinks of cheating all the time; 2) asks me to hang out; 3) asks me for dirty pictures; 4) reminisces of NON-existent, more-than-kissing, OVER-6-YEARS-AGO-ONE-TIME-DEAL sexual encounters with me; and finally, 5) wonders/asks how my vagina looks like.
I say FUCK YOU, get a life! Go get your dick sucked properly, go get laid already and stop being a fucking creep, blowing up my beautiful white iPhone4! It bleeds creepy, pervy DMM text messages!
D E S P A R A T E
Still. . . Fucking D E S P E R A T E!
Again—Universe, I just don’t like you very much right now.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
I’m gonna be honest. I am a girly-girl. I love shoes and I love purses. My recently purchased iPhone’s hard case is, in fact, hot pink (but that’s only because they didn’t have the white-and-gray one I wanted!). I often indulge in mani/pedi’s. I love puppies and well, dogs in general. Cute, small, furry dogs. I love them so much that if you ever walk down the street with me and we happen to walk passed a puppy/cute, small, furry dog, I will squeal with excitement in the most inappropriate and unorthodox way.
I could probably beat and squish my brain for some more examples to show just how girly I
really possibly am. But that would defeat the real purpose of this post. Outwardly, I resemble your typical often done up, somewhat materialistic looking, dangling-earring-wearing, bug-eye-sunglasses-sporting, bitch-on-wheels fashionista.
However, on the inside, I identify with the term “princess” about as much as Mother Theresa identified with the term “penis enlarger.”
Being the second (and last) born in the family (I have an older sister), my mother once told me that she, in fact, really did wish for me to be a boy (thanks, mom). Much to her surprise and probably disappointment, she got another (premature, teeny-tiny) girl. I really think that’s how it all got started.
Growing up, I didn’t really care for dolls or any girly toys. To say that I played with cars and trucks and toy guns all day long would be a lie, but I’d often play outside – run (like a maniac in circles most probably), climb trees, jump rope, and such. In grade school, I wanted to play soccer and basketball with the boys. Oh, and the group of girls in my class would often gang up on guys and beat them up. No joke, we were savages.
By the age of 10-11, and quite possibly overnight, I got boobs. Seriously, gut-wrenching embarrassment right there. My mother would basically drain my soul of any love I had for her when she’d openly chitchat with her BFFs right in front of me about my dreaded, newly found chest mounds.
Mom: “Can you believe the size of her BREASTS?! I know, me either! Already! Oh, they sure grow up fast…” (sad-face-side-head-movement)
*escapes awkward embrace, marches to room, slams door, buries head in pillow*
I pretty much wanted to kill her at the time, instead of really thanking her. (Although I don’t get my decent size from my mother’s side, but the woman did give me life, so whatever – thanks, mom.)
Sure enough, I’ve come a long way since then. I have come to not only embrace and value the mere existence of my boobs, but also use their magical powers (or their respectable magical size) in every possible advantageous situation. And there are plenty. (Ain’t that right, ladies?)
So, in a nutshell, I was a bit of a tomboy growing up. Until I got the boobs. Yup. Boobs robbed me of any chance of getting picked again to play soccer with the guys. I now had these ridiculous sacks of fat that flared around uncontrollably when I ran or did any cool, outdoorsy activity.
Since I wasn’t the only blessed boob child, all the girls soon starting acting like delicate little flowers. Seriously? I still wanted to beat the boys up when they would act-a-fool! Only now they’d try to cop a feel or pinch my ass, which I certainly didn’t appreciate and would only further make me want to kick the ever-living shit out of them even more.
But, just like the boob phase, I outgrew the no-good-useless-annoying-boys-are-punching-bags stage. Soon enough, I would find myself crushing and gushing over an older, cute and tall 7th grader. Like, hardcore. Fuck.
I seriously remember thinking:
“OK. Bobby, OMG, Bobby. Bobby (read: typical pretty boy nightmare). He’s just sooooooooooooooooooooo cute. I can’t help but doodle BOBBY all over my friggn notebook. BOBBBBBBY. OKOKOK. Mary and Jane (read: slutbags) are trying to talk to him. (read: flirt). Plus he’s kind of popular. OK, so he must know that he’s all that (read: an asshole). HE IS all that (read: a big asshole). Fuck it, I don’t care if he KNOWS that I THINK he’s all that because he must already KNOW he is all that. (read: totally fucked up overall logic that has probably beautifully set the pace of my overall fucked-upness.)”
True story. Even back then, I clearly didn’t give a shit.
Throughout the years, my overall attitude further solidified the idea that in order for me to really like someone, I had to (obviously) know the person first. I mean, REALLY know the person. Just because I would find a boy attractive and esthetically pleasing (read: hot, hot, hot), would not mean that I LIKED HIM. I generally began putting a lot of emphasis on physical attraction, but probably not enough into getting to know someone because for most of the time, boys didn’t really fascinate me. They bored me and besides my curiosity over how good our tongues could wrestle together or over how big their bulge in their pants could get – I didn’t find myself overly emotionally or mentally stimulated.
Needless to say, the notion of separating “sex” and “love” came in quite easily. I came to realize though that as sexual a person as I might be, in the end, sex just creates a void and doesn’t fill one. I came to realize that lust is just so damn easy, but LOVE IS FUCKING HARD.
But in my late teens and early twenties, I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to me the cool party girl who wasn’t going to talk about “feelings.” I wasn’t going to be needy or emotional. It didn’t suite me well. I wanted to be that girl at the bar, in high heels, armed with a vodka-cran in hand, who wouldn’t desperately try to find Mr. Right. Maybe Mr. Right Now. Or perhaps neither.
Women are emotional for one main reason – we’re nurturing. We want to cater, and coddle and make everything OK. Often times, all of these attributes are extremely externally driven. This means that we will bend ourselves backwards and cater and accommodate and pamper the man in our life. I am not the one to do that. Call me crazy, but I feel like I lose my head when I do this. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this for. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the nurturing gene.
Although I really want to think that one day I will want children, when it comes to kids, I can only tolerate them in small dosages. Very small dosages. I do my best to avoid any family-friendly places, although it’s fucking almost impossible. (read: restaurants, malls, the movies, beaches, vacation resorts, etc.) Also, the thought of squeezing out of my vagina one of those little rugrats terrifies me to no end. But in all honesty, I’m more concerned about giving up my freedom (read: life) and embracing such an important, grown-up, parental role. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this with. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the maternal gene.
On the other hand, men are less emotional for one main reason – they’re solvers. They know they need to profess, protect and provide. They’re thinkers and doers. What a woman will interpret as a “sign,” a man will have a totally logical, cerebral explanation.
Have you ever really listened in on a conversation between two women? It could be about the smallest, dumbest and most insignificant thing, ever. It usually goes something like this:
Female #1: “I’m so cold. BRRRR.”Female #2: “Omg, I know, me too! What the hell is up with the weather? Seriously. I can’t take it anymore. I wish I lived in Brazil sometimes.”Female #1: “I KNOW, me too! This weather sucks; it’s supposed to be nice and warm today. I just want to go somewhere warm, but Brazil is too far. I’d move to like, Florida. Omg, Pete’s parents’ third cousin’s girlfriend who I used to take Pilates classes with at Bally’s moved to Florida. You know how much I loooooove Pilates, right? Ugh, I am SO jealous of her! She was in such great shape, too – that bitch. She had such a good bubble butt!”
Two words: Verbal Diarrhea.
Same conversation between a woman and a man?
Female: “I’m so cold. BRRRR."Male: “Put your jacket on.” (hands jacket)
See? Problem solved.
Am I always this short in conversation and ALWAYS a problem-solver? No. Half engaging, stimulating, refreshing coversation? Yes, please. Overall, I just tend to gravitate towards straight-to-the-point-less-endless-mindless-making-my-ears-bleed fucking chatter. MY GOD.
Women are stupid sometimes when it comes to money, too. As much as I would love to own a pair of Christian Louboutin’s, I am not one of those crazy bitches who live on “plastic money.” I happen to have a fucking brain. (Plus, there was a time in college when I DID in fact live on “plastic money” and spent like I was Rockefeller’s daughter, but it was college and I felt entitled to having all sorts of ridiculous – mostly alcohol-induced – expensive, but fun escapades. Alas, I have learned my lesson since then.)
Oh, and (kinda besides the point, but whatever) do you know why most women would kill for a nice pair of Christian Louboutin’s? Because we all want to stand taller and sexier next to another insecure, stupid bitch, just to get an asshole’s attention. Yup, that’s my new-found theory. (OK, it could also be because the quality and design of the shoes is amazing.)
Other attributes that make me less than your average girly-girl? I have the mouth of a truck driver, I hate shopping, I’m allergic to chick flicks, I’m pretty handy around the house, nothing better to watch than a UFC fight, I rule in beer pong, free weights are my best friends at the gym and I refuse to do “girl” push-ups.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
I want to start off by stating that I’m so ready to kick myself in the ass for even thinking of attempting to write about this topic. No. A kick in the ass is not the right punishment. I should really just chew off my fingers and rip my eyeballs out right now. Maybe cut my tongue out also, and kill all of my brain cells entirely and immediately. That way, I won’t be able to type/talk/think about this toxic-ass ridiculousness.
(I should also apologize about how lengthy this toxic-ass ridiculousness will be, so MY BAD! Alas, I need to detoxify immediately.)
I am referring to none other than Mr. Texas, an “online flame” (more like a fucking disastrous fire) that has plagued and brain-fucked me for the last 3 months or so.
Did I mention that we texted 99324928347923487294827712 times over the course of a month while he was 3475639475327485645 miles away on business?
Of course I did.
Did I mention how we never did actually meet because he turned out to be scumbag, douchebag, lying, flaky bastard?
OF COURSE I DID.
Reading Elle’s latest post on SATS made me realize the following:
GIIIIIIRL, did you set yourself up for this shit!
Yup, I SURE did. And I sort of knew it, too.
From his impeccable spelling/grammar, to his boyish good looks (think tall—swoon, 6’3, blonde-ish—though really not my cup of tea, dark eyes and a smile that could seriously fucking melt the iceberg Titanic hit. I have to admit—I’m such a silly sucker for smiles. I can’t resist a sexy smile that houses some nice pearly whites. I just CAAAAAAN’T!) to his overall personality, I could just TEEEEEEELL (*rolls eyes*) this boy was trouble.
In REAL fucking LIFE, I would NOT go for him, and he would NOT go for me. Call it self-preservation, but he was the type of guy I’d want to just shred to fucking pieces: annoying good looks, a brain AND personality, a good JOB, a good sense of humor (read: funny as shit, sarcasm at its finest, somewhere between crass vulgarity and crude hilarity), throw into the blend some wit and charm and you’ve got the recipe for disaster. Why? Because SOMETHING HAS TO BE WRONG WITH HIM, duh!
Phew. OK, I feel better now. (Not really.)
But… somehow, I lost myself. I let myself be completely fucking delusional. I mean, really. I let myself believe his stupid words on my stupid phone screen. I let myself interpret his stupid words on my stupid phone screen as grand affirmations instead of viewing them as mere word-charades. I’d throw my head back in laughter as he’d vomit all these promises and declare all these ridiculous things to me, things that otherwise would make me run for the steepest, highest hills. But… somehow, I lost myself. I let myself be delusional. Completely fucking delusional.
I said to myself, “OK, fuck all this ridiculous shit he says to me (OK, I didn’t reeeeally say that, but I did say what ensues) I just want to meet him. That’s all I fucking want. God, please give me that and I will be set. Just to make sure that he’s really the Mr. Texas I’m imaging him to be. (And maybe have my way with him a few times. OKOKOK, just ONCE will do.) Then I can shred him to fucking little pieces. Thank you.”
However, while I was legitimately thinking this way, I was also (foolishly) feeling/acting on the following:
1. Time Difference.
He was, as mentioned, 3475639475327485645 miles away on business. (3475639475327485645 = California; I’m an East Coast chick, so you do the math) Mr. Texas was always 3 hours BEHIND. So while he’d prance, frolicking around Californian bars and clubs virtually EVERY fucking NIGHT of the FUCKING WEEK of the FUCKING MONTH (alcoholic, much? Why, yes, of course!), he wouldn’t think twice about texting me. Which was AWWW, SUPER SWEET, right? He’d think of me while out—he’d definitely not be
banging talking to other girls. Oh, no. RIGHT.
Not only would he text me at convenient/decent/reasonable hours for him (12AM - 1AM for HIM, 3AM - 4AM for ME) – his texts were
often always so fucking retardedly incoherent due to his intoxication that half the time, my only, half-asleep responses would be, “what?” “huh?” “uhhuh…” “haha” and “yes, I know, babe” (*cringe* at “babe” and I had NO idea what the fucking I was agreeing to.) Fucking asshole.
So I basically would stupidly entertain/amuse his sorry, drunken ass at all sorts of ungodly hours of the night, while I had work the next day at 9AM. (Just in case you are wondering, most days, he’d have to go into work by 11AM-12PM the earliest.) Fucking, fucking selfish asshole. (Fucking, fucking stupid girl.)
Three weeks into it, I get a message on the dating site from a cute little blonde who had “endorsed him.” (She was on the site herself.) The message read some ridiculous shit, along the lines of him being a nice, fun guy and all, but bad, bad news and how she “had known him for 3 years and watched him rip 2 girl’s worlds’ apart,” so I should “be careful” if I “feel my feelings getting intense.” (Oh, this was just “a friendly heads-up” and she of course, asked me not to mention anything to him, by the way.)
4. TEMPER. (I’m cringing again.)
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
For most of us, the indifference stance is fervently adopted as a stoic response to negative experiences. We get shot down, so we don’t care anymore. We’re heartbroken, so fuck that noise. Kick rocks, bitch. We become emotionless, unaffected. Robots. Indifference just becomes a sad cover-up. And it usually is followed by the undeniable regret.
True indifference, however, stems from a quiet place. It’s not meant to act as a defense mechanism of any kind. On the contrary - it brings about closure and peace.
When I was younger, my mom once told me how being indifferent is the wisest way to deal with certain aspects of life. Indifference is worse than feeling “hate.” Gosh – hate. Really, mom? Hate carries as much heavy emotional artillery as its complete opposite. LOVE. And the two often are coupled together in our hearts and minds. We love to hate. We hate to love. Double whammy. But indifference will just stare you in the face. Indifference will not smile or wink at you. It will not scream at you or curse you out. It will just stare you blankly and calmly in the face. And there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.
Once all my emotions have been exhausted, I become indifferent. I’m stripped of all emotions. I no longer love, hate, care, fear, long, desire, want, lust, hunger, doubt, wonder, question, admire, assume, demand, or crave. I’m no longer happy, tender, excited, scared, sad or angry. I no longer experience: pride, pity, misery, regret, sorry, shock, horror, guilt, embarrassment, euphoria, despair, hope, envy, disappointment, contempt, or anxiety. YUP, even apathy.
I’m just fucking INDIFFERENT.