A Slight Melt Down

Being one week late for your period when you are on birth control is completely normal. At least, that is what I told myself. I had cramps and sore nipples and had been binge eating chocolate for almost a week. All good signs of a barren pms-ing womb. Right?

But then it happened. It started with soup. While eating a bowl of Ramen (don’t judge), I kept thinking, "why does this taste like metal?" Then a banana. Still metal. Actually, everything I ate tasted like I was chewing on iron. What the hell?

Clearly, I was dying of cancer. I just needed WebMD to verify this fact for me.

Here was what I typed in the Google search bar: “food tastes like metal”

Here was the first thing Google recommended: “food tastes like metal pregnant”

Excuse me? Yeah. It seems metal mouth is one of the early signs of pregnancy. Let the melt down begin…

Sumo Baby: Are you busy?

Me: (sobbing) No. Yes. I’m on my way to the store to get a stick to piss on.
Sumo Baby: What?
Me: I’m late and my mouth tastes like iron.
Sumo Baby: Oh no! Those were my first signs with my daughter. Do your boobs hurt?
Me: Yes!
Sumo Baby: Oh no!
Me: Shit.
Sumo Baby: What will you do?
Me: I don’t know. I have to keep it if I am. I can’t run away either… long story. I guess get on WIC. Find a cheap two bedroom apartment near work. Get fat. Never sleep again. Start eating organic. What else do pregnant people do? Buy a tread mill and throw up a lot? Jesus. I’d make such a terrible mother!
Sumo Baby: No you wouldn’t. I know you don’t want to hear this but I know you. You’d give up your whole life to make your child happy. You’d make an excellent mom.
Me: (wiping tears) Fine. But I don’t want to. It’s too terrifying. I can barely take care of myself. Imagine me with a kid!
Sumo Baby: Stop. You’ll be fine. Just go get your stick and call me back. And quit freaking out!

The car ride home did not go any better. Here was my internal dialogue.

Freaked Out Me (FO Me): How much do diapers cost? Like a million dollars a week? I'm never going to sleep again!

Rational Me: Do they make Star Trek onesies?
FO Me: Nine months with no wine? NINE MONTHS!! NO WINE!!
Rational Me: Maybe a Firefly themed nursery with replica Serenity ship as the crib… hmm.
FO Me: This will destroy my body! I’ll never have a minute alone! I hate the sound of babies crying!!
Rational Me: Maybe I can start eating cheeseburgers again and justify my meat eating as ‘cravings’.
FO Me: Texas? I’m going to raise a child in fucking Texas?! Isn’t that enough of a reason to justify abortion?!
Rational Me: I wonder which cartoons are tolerable nowadays? Is Yo Gabba Gabba still a socially acceptable show for children?
FO Me: They shit and puke everywhere! They require constant attention! My traveling around the world days are over! I will know mommy language! Mommy language for god’s sake!!
Rational Me: I think I will teach this kid to speak Japanese and eat only with chop sticks. Maybe play the violin or build rockets.
FO Me: (sobbing) Children’s books are awful… (still sobbing)

Obviously, since I am writing this blog instead of being curled up in a corner losing my fucking mind, I pissed negative. No baby infestation for this girl. Whew!

You are probably wondering what lesson I learned from this terrifying experience. Well, I learned to trust in the magic powers of the ring, that birth control is awesome, to just be happy when I don’t bleed and that I actually like Yo Gabba Gabba. Weird.

Also, I celebrated by getting wine drunk and having sex. Happy No Baby Day to me!!

Passion, Art and a Brief Vibrator Review

I woke up earlier than usual this morning. It is strange how when I find myself with free time, I always choose to do something useless. Clean my apartment? No, thank you. Make a healthy lunch? Hell no! Organize my sock drawer? I don’t own drawers.

Instead of all that, I decided to pull out my box of unfinished writings. Why not? I’ve got a writers meeting today, might as well start it off feeling unaccomplished and lazy. It’s the pseudo-writer thing to do, isn’t it?

The thing about that box is that it usually depresses me. What is the point of writing if you never finish anything? And then it hit me.

I don’t write to ‘finish’ things or to share things or even to be successful at writing. I write because I have to. Because I am in love with words. Passionately in love with them. If I go days without writing (which is very rare), I feel... lost. Almost heartbroken.

I know, I know. Sounds dramatic, right? Of course it is! I’m a fucking writer, what do you expect? But it’s also very true. If you have ever been in love, had that one person that made your breath catch, your stomach drop, sent chills through your body with a single touch, then you would know what it is like to need to write. It has a powerful grip on you. It is dramatic. It’s meant to be. Writing is most definitely a lover.

Charles Bukowski once wrote, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” I never really understood what he meant. Why let it kill you? Why not let it keep you alive? But sitting there on the corner of my bed, half asleep and full of PMS emotion, I finally understood. Here is the full quote (from a letter he once supposedly wrote):

"Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover."

Fucking brilliant. Thank you Hank, I think I will do just that. May I have at least ten boxes by the time of my death. With at least ONE finished novel.

I know what you’re thinking. Am I done prattling on about my love affair with writing? No!  Just bear with me and I’ll end with this with my vibrator review. Geesh!

Kevin Smith once did a Q&A session on Red State. In it he had some advice about passion and art. At first I kind of got caught up in his description of passion. I mean, listen to him; he’s hands down one of the most romantic men on earth. Maybe THE most romantic. When he realizes she is the ‘one’ when she agrees that going to Denny’s and getting Moons Over My Hammy is a great idea, it is beautiful. (Swoon). And you can tell Kevin Smith has been in love. How? Lots of men will say are in love or that they have been in love at some point but most have no idea what that even means. Kevin Smith, he fucking knows. And then to reel me back in and tell me this is how I should feel about my art? Holy shit! He’s not just right about this. He is dead on.

Here is the moment where Kevin Smith stole my heart and proved his brilliance:

 

Genius, isn't he?

 

Alright, enough about love and writing. I give you the vibrator review:

First, let me start this by saying there is nothing that makes this vibrator stand out from any other. It’s penis-shaped and it vibrates. However, it is still god damn amazing. The size was perfect, the nubs and whatever the hell is all over it was heavenly, and the vibrating speed did not ruin my teeth. For the price, this thing is just plain awesome. On the other hand, I will spend a little more next time to get something more curved. I don’t like having to work to get to my g spot. I’m a lazy masturbater.

V Day Update:
I was informed by Wil that his nacho recipe, which is called Toxic Nachos, is not made with tortilla chips but with Doritos. And that you can only have one plate. More than one and you will become very sick. So I stand corrected. He is obviously quite good in the kitchen.

V Day

The Conversation -

Wil: Hey. What do you want to do for Valentine’s day?

Me: Oh yeah, that’s coming up, huh? What an awful day for men. The one day where all the pressure is on them.
Wil: I know! So what do you want to do?
Me: That’s a difficult question. I hate going out anywhere on Valentine’s. It’s a nightmare.
Wil: I agree.
Me: How about I make you an Irish dinner and we play video games? Maybe watch a sci-fi movie? I’ll light candles. We’ll have sex. It’ll be romantic. (Yep, that’s my idea of romance. Potatoes, gaming, aliens and sex. And you wonder why I was single for so long!)
Wil: No. I’m supposed to do something for you. Remember? All the pressure is on me.
Me: Then let’s change tradition.
Wil: No. I’ll cook for you.
Me: You can’t cook. You only know how to melt cheese.
Wil: I’ll figure it out. I’ll even make something vegetarian.
Me: (looking at him with squinted eyes) Okay…

Let me explain to you how sweet that conversation was. It seems like a normal two-people-making-plans discussion, right? No no no. Here's the break down.

1.      February 14^th is terrifying for men. Some women expect men to go all out. Some just want flowers and dinner. Some say they don’t care about the holiday but then get pissed if a man does nothing. Some really don’t care about the holiday and then get pissed when a man tries to do something nice. (Women are evil like that.) No matter which category a woman falls into, most of the time she will never tell a man what she expects. She just leaves him to guess at the correct course of action. And god forbid he guesses wrongly. (shivers) So the fact that Wil just came out and asked was a genius move on his part. Here’s what his question really meant: “I don’t want to fuck up this holiday so tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” Brilliant.

2.      Wil really can’t cook. If it requires adding ingredients or mixing things together, he is completely lost. The closest he comes is taking tortilla chips, piling cheddar cheese on them and then melting it all in a microwave. He even has a name for this dish (I forget what he calls it). Either way, that is honestly the extent of his culinary abilities. Which means to offer to cook for anyone is a very big deal for him. VERY BIG. I feel honored.

3.      I have never in my life met anyone who hates vegetables as much as Wil does. Mention broccoli and he scrunches up his nose and gets a nauseous look on his face. Eat spinach in front of him and he’ll look at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind. If it isn’t meat, pasta, bread, rice, beans, potatoes, or processed MSG (is that possible?) then he wants nothing to do with it. Therefore, offering to cook me something healthy… that’s a big step for Wil. Cute, isn’t he?

 

Honestly, though, Valentine's Day is a such strange day. I don’t understand it.  No one even knows how this holiday started and we are still fucking celebrating it? And whichever Valentine saint you prefer to believe we are honoring, the fact is is that all of them were martyred. They died HORRIBLE deaths for being Christian. All of them.

But let’s just pick one anyway. My personal favorite is the Roman Valentine. In this fun filled story Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, so he outlawed marriage for all the young males. Roman Valentine rebelled against Claudius and continued to perform secret marriages. When Claudius found out, he ordered Valentine to be put to death. How romantic.

Okay, I get it. What better way to honor the death of godly man than by enjoying overpriced dinners, buying completely unnecessary pieces of jewelry, killing flowers, and having lots of premarital sex? Of course. And just to make this day even more awesome, let’s fuck with all the guys and make them prove how much they love us on this cheerful dead saint day with useless gifts and cheesy gestures and cards with some awful crap about forever on them. Why? Because that’s what Valentine would have wanted. And screw the fact that most men do nice things for women all year round, this is the one day they better be on their ‘A’ game because this is the only day where women will act like they actually appreciate the fact that men go out of their way for them and put up with all their womanly bullshit.

Oh, and don’t forget to plaster bright red annoying hearts all over every god damn store and restaurant because that’s not annoying. Stuffed animals, fat babies with arrows, horrible tasting heart shaped candy, boxes of cheap chocolate. That is EXACTLY what Mr. Valentine died for.

Way to go western culture. Way. To. Go.

 

However, I am not ashamed to admit that I still want food and video games and aliens and sex on that day. Why? Because I feel that’s truly how Saint Val would have wanted to be remembered.

Anal Recommendations

Alright, Amazon, we need to have a serious talk. Just because I bought one vibrator off your website (the only sex toy I have ever purchased from you), that does not mean you need to take a giant leap in the ‘recommendations’ department and go right into butt plugs and anal beads.

Listen, I would understand if I was going crazy and buying a bunch of dildos, strap ons and crotchless underwear. You might think, “maybe this girl would like a butt plug or two”. But let’s look at my 6 month history, shall we?

1.      California Exotics Waterproof Delights Blue Jelly – Vibrator

2.      Fugazi 13 Songs – MP3 Album

3.      Civilization and it’s Discontent’s – Kindle Book

4.      No Plot, No Problem – Kindle Book

5.      HDMI Cord – Electronics

6.      Roku Power Cord – Electronics

7.      Sons of Anarchy – Instant Video

8.      Walking Dead – Instant Video

9.      Being Human – Instant Video

10.   Run With the Hunted – Kindle Book

11.   Redken Conditioner – Beauty

From all this, you have determined that I have an anal fetish? And it wasn’t like you just snuck one in there. You had everything from pink plugs to intro beads to advanced beads. Wow. I actually feel somewhat violated.

I will say this, while skimming over your new and incredibly presumptuous recommendations, I was shocked to see that on one of the set of anal beads there were 116 reviews. 116!! I am in awe that that many people took time out of their day to write about how they were either thrilled or disappointed by their experience. Mostly thrilled (yeah, I had to look). And I really am deeply disturbed and intrigued by this. Not that they enjoyed or hated the beads but that they wrote on a very public website very intimate details about their sex lives. And these weren't anonymous reviews, mind you. These were Bob from California. Or Debbie the Book Lover. Or Chunky Money Mama. Is nothing private anymore (says the girl who blogs about her vibrators)? Let’s check some of the reviews out, shall we?

THE GOOD (there were lots of good, but I chose this one to share)

This is a steal for the price. Quality construction and the perfect size for beginners. I’ve used them on myself, which is great… but it is way more fun to use them on my partner. I recommend trimming the first two beads as the other reviewers have suggested due to the redundancy of them. They add a bit to the length and unless your ass is extremely tight (yeah, he really wrote that) you will not feel them at all anyways. My girlfriend and I love these in the bedroom (where else would you love these?), she can’t get enough of them.

THE BAD

I have purchased beads on a string before (Beads on a string? Really?) and assumed these would be the same. No. It’s stiff plastic and has rough edges. Get something better. This is a throwaway.

THE UGLY

I’m not really the type of person to leave reviews at all (So you chose anal beads as your first?) especially items like this (LIAR! I see you also reviewed a vibrating strap on!). However, they are DANGEROUS in my opinion. We never played with these before. The first go went fine. The second one: nope! I found that the rubber strand had cracked and parts were nearly separated. Scary, as nobody wishes anything to uh “get lost”. (As much as I understand your concern, lost ass beads are inconvenient but not dangerous. Lost razor blades, now that would be dangerous.)

Don’t worry, Amazon. I did find out how to take things off my recommendation list so all is back to normal. But I would really love to understand the masturbation/anal probe link. Feel free to email me.

In related news: My Waterproof Delights Blue Jelly will be delivered today. Check back for my official review (that will not be shared on Amazon).

To the Man I Almost Ran Over Today

To the Man I Almost Ran Over Today,

You are right. Your bright red coat makes you very noticeable. And to answer your first three questions: 1. Yes, I should know to slow down at the god damn cross walk. 2. No, I am not fucking blind. 3. At times I can be a moron, so my answer is yes, I am a fucking moron.

However, I feel I need to put this in perspective so that you understand why I almost killed you. Last week I bought a new book on audible.com. ‘Agent to the Stars’. And guess who the narrator is? The REAL Wil Wheaton. I had one other book to finish before I could start it and today was the day. Exciting, huh? But let’s face it, the audible book isn’t going to turn on and play itself. No. I have to look at my phone, find the app, pull up the book, put in my headphones and press play. I mean, really, how am I supposed to make a forty-five minute journey to work without jamming out to audio books? Therefore, can you honestly say that it is my fault for nearly slamming into your body and possibly dragging you a few feet? I think not.

Furthermore, who the hell wears a red coat? Are you Santa? Because you looked all of 30 years old and everyone knows Santa is 72. Maybe you are British? Hmmm… I think not. When you told me to go fuck myself it was clearly in an American accent. And I have to ask, why the hell was your jacket so damn puffy? You live in Dallas for crying out loud! Did the artic temperature of 64° compel you to break out your Mt. Everest gear before braving the sunny sidewalks and snow-less streets today? I feel as though if I had hit you (which I would like to point out that I did not) you might have had enough padding to be perfectly fine.

And let’s talk about the way you flipped me off. When you give someone the bird, the middle finger should be up and all other fingers, INCLUDING THE THUMB, should be down. Why? Because when you leave that thumb up, it makes it look like you are throwing me some Addison Circle gang sign or rocking out to a death metal song you got going on in your head. Neither of which is insulting to me. It’s just… confusing. Here’s my advice, use only the middle finger, throw it up hard as if the finger itself is saying ‘fuck you’ and make sure to glare at me all angry-faced. That last part is important because your facial expression was one of fear and horror, which is not at all effective when flipping someone off.

Lastly, when someone almost murders you with a moving vehicle, please do not stop in the middle of the road to yell at them. You have seen what happens when deer do that, right? Very bloody. Jesus, what were you thinking? You stopped before I even hit my brakes! I feel like had I plowed you over, I might have been able to argue that you killed yourself. Let me tell you how I handle myself when someone tries to hit me with their car. I run. Fast. Onto a sidewalk. That course of action has saved my life on numerous occasions. I’m actually surprised you have made it to your thirties. I can only assume you just have not crossed many streets in your lifetime. Or maybe this was your first time doing it alone. Either way, always finish the crossing, especially when oncoming cars are closing in.

All in all, it was a pleasurable experience meeting you. I’m sorry for bringing you so close to your own death but now I feel like we are bonded in a way. I hope I see you sometime when I am out and about. Or maybe I will run into you (no pun intended) at a bar. Wouldn’t that be nice? I could share more lifesaving advice and you could tell me stories about how you became so unfashionable and retarded. What good times we could have.

Sincerely,

The Girl Who Almost Killed You

Finally! A Vibrator Decision

I did it! I finally ordered a usable vibrator and not a collectable one. I think I am beginning to understand this whole vibrator thing… you must be able to take it out of the box.

The only bad part was the shopping part. Jesus! So many sizes and materials and speeds and attachments and colors. What’s a girl to do? Why can’t I just get a 10 platter sampler kit and place my order after trying them all? I don’t even remember what I like!! It’s been so long! And so the quest for the holy vibrator began…

Size – Look, vibrator companies, not all us women what to cram a 9 inch plastic pipe up our vaginas. The old saying that ‘size matters’ is not a lie. But anything over 8 inches is terrifying. Not like I am a virginal little flower but, god damn it, I am delicate. And a little protective of what the hell goes in there. 9 inches? Are you out of your fucking minds? I decided that anything between 6 to 7 would be just fine. Which limited my selection greatly.

Material – Who the hell thought to make vibrators out of hard plastic? OUCH! Or metal? Still OUCH! But worse of all, glass. Whoa. Just whoa. I am not shoving anything with the potential to break into shards up there. I can imagine explaining that to the ER doctor.

ER Doc: How the hell did you get shards of glass in your vagina?

Me: It was my vibrator.

ER Doc: You really need to reassess your sex toy decisions. Looks like we’re going to have to put you down.

Me: I thought so.

See what I mean? Only soft jelly for this girl. Soft, unbreakable, ER free jelly.

Speeds – Okay. I get the awesomeness of speed. It’s what makes vibrators so appealing. But there is such a thing as too much speed. I don’t want to feel it in my teeth, people! The point is to have an orgasm, not to throw yourself into a seizure. 10 speed?!? God, no!

Attachments – Oh! Look at all the little detachable pieces. Way to appeal to my gadgety nerd side. So what’s the problem? I will lose every single piece. I can imagine having wine night with friends…

Friend: What’s this in your couch cushion?

Me: The bunny ear attachment.

Friend: The what?

Me: It’s for my clit. Pay no mind. More wine anyone?

Colors – Really? I could give a rat’s ass if it was pink or blue or red or black. Most the time the lights will be off. And since I can’t display it, what the hell does it matter? Do girls really base something as important as a vibrator decision on color coding? Idiots.

In the end, I think I found the vibrator of my dreams. It’s 6 ½ inches. Perfect! It’s made of a soft jelly. It has three amazing speeds. It’s blue (who gives a shit). It has awesome reviews. But here is the best part of all. It’s waterproof! What? Showers just got way better. I am going to be the cleanest bitch you ever met. Ever.

An Evening with the Pope's Peeps

Not too long ago I made the decision to go back to church. What, me in church? Yeah, you heard it right. I may be morally bankrupt, have the mouth of a sailor, drink like a pirate (okay, more like a Dorothy Parker… you remember her, the poet who suffered from love and loss and a horrible champagne addiction… I drink like her), but every now and then I get this spiritual awakening in me. Like perhaps there is a God. And even though God most likely exists outside the bounds of organized religion, maybe it is in religious metaphor that we can find that understanding, that kinship I suppose.

Don’t worry. I won’t get too deep here.

Since I’ve made this decision, I have gone all of one time. Just one time, you ask? Don’t judge me! It isn’t my fault that church people decide to hold services on Sunday morning, the one morning where I am usually incredibly hung over. Just getting out of bed to take a piss makes my whole body ache. Imagine what a room full of singing people and screaming children would do to me. I would lose it, maybe beat a kid over the head with a hymnal, maybe chuck a bible at some old lady who was singing too loudly, maybe use the pew as a makeshift bed. Anything could happen.

The Catholics, however, they understand this. Sure they don’t have the whole animated sermons, people screaming ‘amen’ randomly, choirs with synchronized dancing. But what they do have is Saturday evening services. Ah, thank you everyone in Ireland. Thank you for being liquored up enough to convince the pope that Sundays were not going to work for drunk people. I owe you. All of you.

So Saturday it was. I didn’t want to go it alone so after a little cajoling, I was able to drag Spitfire with me. She’s a natural born church girl so convincing her was easy. She truly loves God and Jesus. Where I approach religion warily (I have reasons for this), poke at it philosophically, search inward, and then run for the hills, she dives in head first, singing halleluiah, with no trace of doubt or suspicion. It’s part of why I love her.

We decided to sit in the very back of the church at the edge of the aisle, near the exit doors. This was in case we needed a quick exit. Usually Catholics are formal in their preaching, sticking to reading passages and doing a lot of Latin crap I never understand. But you need to play church safe. What if the priest wants to start lecturing us on premarital sex and the importance of family values? Yawn. Time to leave. Plus in the past I have heard everything from praying over Fruit Loops (yeah, I guess God can help in all your cereal dilemmas) to demons living in Harry Potter books (at least they have good taste in children’s literature). In other words, I have been traumatized enough to make sure I always have an escape route.

First thing I noticed when we got there was the amount of children running around. At least five per family. Whoa! How can these people afford this? How do they sleep? Why are they torturing themselves? Hey, every Catholic in the world, your rhythm method is not working. Wrap it up and do 100 Hail Mary’s. You’ll thank me, I promise.

And it isn’t that I dislike children. It’s just that they remind me of very tiny schizophrenic adults with zero social skills. I mean, if I started running through the aisles with my hands down my pants screaming, “I’m peeing myself!!” everyone would be appalled. I’d get kicked out, possibly arrested. Little Sammy does it and all the women coo over how cute he is. He’s not cute! He’s pissing all over the church!

Then came the eating Jesus part. Communion. I actually like communion. Everyone is quiet and reflective. The gesture and symbolism is quite beautiful; death and sacrifice are always the best part of a hero’s journey. And the fact that there is a physical ritual that produces a spiritual connection feels ancient to me.

But the Catholics do the one thing that terrifies any decent germaphobe. They drink out of the same cup. Same cup!! Okay, I’d have to have a game plan if I were one of them. Maybe turn the cup to the opposite side, the spot no one else drank from. No! You can’t even do that!! Why, you ask? Because the crazy cup guy has a white cloth that he uses to smear the germs all around the edge. There is no safe spot! All I could do is watch in horror as everyone received herpes and the flu. (shivers)

Finally, the Catholics do a lot of kneeling, then standing, then sitting, then kneeling again. I guess this is fine but I never knew when it was going to happen. All of a sudden the entire church was standing. Did I miss something? Was there a secret code word that caused this? It’s as if they were the Borg, locked into a collective just knowing when to do something. Which meant I was the last one to do anything. Oh, shit! We’re supposed to stand! Holy crap! We need to kneel! What the hell? We need to stand up!  After half an hour I was exhausted. I finally gave up and just sat there with an ‘I am Lutheran’ look on my face. Resistance was not futile after all.

Anyways, we made it out alive. And if I find a church that understands my drinking schedule, isn’t full of a bunch of white people and their bazillion children, doesn’t pass out herpes and small pox, and doesn’t speak a secret language, I am totally down with trying it out. I feel God and I would get along fabulously.

Post Script: I realize this has nothing to do with men or dating or drinking. Why? Because I like throwing you a fucking curve ball, that’s why. Want men, drinking and dating updates? Fine!

Men – I pissed off Wil Wheaton by being drunk and jumping to conclusions. I made up for it with my super cute sad face and sex, the apology tools of every smart female.

Drinking – I drank a shit ton this weekend. A. Shit. Ton.

Dating – I went on a date, ate sushi, and made a man shower with me just to prove how ridiculous I look wet. Boom!

Kiss of Death, Squirting and Breeding

Do you remember Out of Shape Sex Girl? No? Jesus, I wrote an entire blog about her. I’m beginning to think you don’t read these posts. Anyways, she had a date the other night with a guy she’s been talking to. She met him on OkCupid (I didn’t even know that website was still around) and they hit it off fabulously. The bonus is that he has a 50/50 chance of being a decent man. Why? Because he’s from San Louis Obispo. Not a bad place to meet someone interesting and/or intelligent. There’s a college there, people usually have jobs in that area, the ocean causes people to be hippie-chill, tons of artists live there, blah blah blah.

So how did it go? Exactly the question I wanted an answer to too.

Me: So how was your date with Steve?
Out of Shape Sex Girl (OOSSG): (giggle)
Me: Hello? How was it?
OOSSG: (still giggling)
Me: Your laugher implies that you had sex.
OOSSG: (giggling) We did!
ME: Wait! I have to ask. Were you in shape enough for this one?
OOSSG: I don’t know. I made him do all the work.
Me: Fair enough. This is starting off good. Break down the date for me.
OOSSG: Let’s see. I had to go back to Bakersfield the next day but I drove out from Tehachapi. Yeah… the date was good.
Me: That is hands down the worst description of a date I have ever heard. In fact, that has nothing to do with your date. I want details! Where did you eat?
OOSSG: Fine. I walked in the door and immediately ravished him and dragged him into the bedroom.
Me: Wow. Even I have never done that on a first date. I’m impressed.
OOSSG: Yep. Then we had amazing sex all night.
Me: Did you ever eat anything? Besides his cock?
OOSSG: We had lunch the next day. Does that count?
Me: Sure.
OOSSG: But the sex. Oh, god. The sex was amazing. I even looked into his eyes when we were doing it.
Me: No! Oh, no no no! You NEVER do that. My god, have I not taught you anything? Looked into his eyes during sex? That’s the kiss of death! For two decades of my sexual life I purposefully never did that. I was married and I never did that! Jesus! What were you thinking?
OOSSG: I liked looking into his eyes. It was nice. I think your over-dramatizing this.
Me: Really? Are you bat shit head-over-heals about him now?
OOSSG: I am.
Me: You know why? Because you looked into his fucking eyes while his dick was in you. You know what you did? You turned a fun sex night into some romantic lovemaking session. Now you’re screwed. We need to find a way to undo this for you.
OOSSG: Where the hell do you look then?
Me: You close your eyes like a normal person! That way you aren’t throwing your entire soul out there. Once you do the looking into his eyes thing… you’re hooked. That guy has you. It’s much harder to lock down your emotions after that. Trust me. And now you have the capacity to feel sadness and be heartbroken if shit goes awry. Whatever you do, don’t do it again. We might be able to fix this.
OOSSG: I think you need to try it more often.
Me: You are out of your fucking mind!
OOSSG: Apparently I squirted too.
Me: What do you mean apparently?
OOSSG: He said I did but I didn’t feel it.
Me: I think you’d know if you did something like that. That’s some magical crazy sex shit. You’d have to know.
OOSSG: Not really. I know squirters and none of them can ever feel when they do it.
Me: I don’t know how to feel about this. It sounds like a mess.
OOSSG: Oh. And he has a daughter.
Me: Is that good or bad?
OOSSG: It’s good. I told him I was glad he has a kid so he won’t want to breed off of me.
Me: Nice! I like that.
OOSSG: That he has a daughter?
Me: No! That you aren’t going to breed! Duh.

In other news: It’s my birthday!! Which means a night of wine and shots and dancing and possibly not remembering a thing! Woo hoo. It also means that at 39, I live in neighborhood full of college-minded 20 year olds, I drink nearly every night, I play video games and watch movies until my eyes bleed, I have a dog that is my child, and I have no nutritional food in my fridge. Not really where I pictured myself being at 39. But god damn it is fun.

A Revelation and the List

Last night I came to a revelation. Not like a smack-you-in-the-face sort of epiphany. More like a wow-I-think-I-get-it-20-minutes-after-talking-about-it thing. So what was this aha moment, you ask? Jesus, I’m only five sentences deep, calm down… I’m getting there.

It all started when somebody asked me what was the longest amount of time I had ever spent single. I had to think about it for a minute. That’s a tough question for me. Embarrassingly, the longest I have gone without a boyfriend has been a year. What the fuck? That’s it, I thought? A year? How could that possibly be? I enjoy being by myself, maybe more than I should. I like not answering to anyone, not having to clean after anybody, not being held accountable for my bad decisions, not being judged, not arguing, owning the remote control, decorating my own space, jumping on my furniture, singing to my dog, living off of mac & cheese and champagne, and so on. So what’s the deal, me? Why such little time alone?

And then it dawned on me (this was not my revelation… wait for it). It wasn’t a fear of loneliness that pulled me into relationships. It was my incredible naivety.

 

There used to be two ways to sweep me off my feet. Be charming and pursue me. If a guy was persistent in these two categories, I was hooked.

Not anymore, though. Charm and pursuit mean little to me now. Don’t misunderstand, I like charm. But real charm, not packaged-from-the-movies charm. And although I love being pursued (what girl doesn’t), it is most certainly not a deal maker. Neither of them are.

So for eight months I turned down dates, said no to being exclusive, and discovered that a night of Netflix and Hulu Plus was remarkably more interesting than the guys who were asking me out. 5 years until Mr. Right shows up? Sure, I’ll be drinking wine on my couch, watching Supernatural and eating veggie chips. Tell him to bring another bottle and some In-N-Out when you see him.

Of course, then Wil Wheaton came around and my waiting 5 years plan went all to hell. Why? Well, shit, he’s god damn Wil Wheaton. Don’t ask me stupid questions.

What does this have to do with my revelation? Okay, fine, I got wordy in my intro. Fucking deal with it.

 

THE REVELATION

Being single in Dallas was the easiest thing in the world to do. Sure, I can say, “Oh, I am so picky now blah blah blah.” Which is sort of true but also bullshit. The reality? The men from here are horrible. Seriously horrible. Like stab-myself-in-the-throat-before-I-spend-more-than-15-minutes-with-them horrible. Horrible enough that being single is a relief. Think I am exaggerating? Come hang out in my neighborhood for an evening. You will be amazed!

And if you are a decent woman who happens to live in the DFW area, for god’s sake find someone who moved here from somewhere else or who hasn’t been here longer than four years. Because the level of shithole douche-baggery is astounding.

I have a list of things that I cannot stand in men (yeah, I have a list for everything) and although it doesn’t seem like it could be possible, all Dallas men fall into one or more of these categories. ALL DALLAS MEN. Hence the 'easy being single here' phenomenon. Here is my ’7 Types of Men I Cannot Stand List’, also known as the ‘The Men Who Are From Dallas List’.

THE LIST

1.      The Superficial Asshole – I hear guys complain all the time about women being superficial. Don’t worry, boys, we ain’t got nothing on you. Sure, I adore a nice pair of shoes, a cute handbag, a tailored dress, a few diamonds here and there. But mostly I like comfy pajamas and matching hoodies. What I’m saying is, don’t fucking size up my income by what I am wearing or my potential to be your arm candy by what I look like. I may not be a size 3 with big tits and a large bank account but I’m god damn funny, halfway smart, annoyingly optimistic, and a clever little bitch. This is what you should be focused on. And who the hell wants to be with a guy that can’t appreciate Hello Kitty pj’s and fuzzy slippers? Who?! Nobody, that’s who.

2.      The Rude Boy – Is it really that hard to say please, or thank you, or open a door for the people behind you, or give a compliment, or understand that sometimes waitresses have bad days, or help an old lady carry her groceries, or let someone talk, or not yell at my dog because he happened jump on you and then look at me like I’m the bitch even though I obviously had him on a leash and you’re the dick who wanted to pet him despite my warning you that he is a jumper? Real sexy, no manners guy. Real sexy.

3.      The Bullshit Nice Guy – Some men have smartened up in the last few years and have finally come to realize that most of us women actually do like nice guys. We don’t just like them, we adore them. The problem is, is for far too long men have been under the impression that we all go for the bad boy type. So they’ve been spending decades fine tuning their asshole abilities in order to get laid. It’s become ingrained in them. Now, suddenly they are starting to understand that we see bad boys as infantile and piggish. Oh shit, they think, we got to change course. Time to be nice. Guess what? We can see through this. At least most of us can. Being nice to the girl you’re trying to hit on and then treating everyone else around you like a piece of shit does not fool us. I suggest behavioral therapy. Maybe working out your mommy issues. Or dating a horrid bitch. All of which are suitable.

4.      The Uninteresting Man – Ok, being uninteresting does not make you a bad person; it just makes you someone I cannot stand being around. There are millions of things going on in this world, millions of things to explore or to learn about or to study or to experience. If you can’t find one thing to be passionate about, then I will think something is seriously mentally wrong with you. Look, it doesn’t have to be interesting to me. Just interesting enough to you that it evokes some sort of emotion. If you sit across the table from me with a monotone voice and no hobbies or interests whatsoever, then the only thing I will be thinking about is what it feels like to stab myself in the face with a fork just to get over the pain of being in your company. Oh, you think I’m being dramatic? No! I’m being interesting. Face stabbing is a hobby of mine.

5.      The Bitter Boy – This might actually be the worst one of the bunch. This is the guy who got burned by the love of his life and is now convinced that all women are evil whores. Here’s his process:

Pick a girl who gives all the signs of being an evil whore (not that hard to see which of us are).

Fall in love with her.

Date and/or marry that girl.

Act shocked when she lies/cheats/steals/fucks your best friend.

Come to the conclusion that all women must be like her.

See, it isn’t his anger that makes him intolerable. It’s his clear lack of any intelligence. You want to know a secret? I’ve been cheated on, lied to, stolen from, etc. Why? Because I dated shitty people. How can I be bitter over my own terrible decisions? And guess what? Not all guys are like that. Some are beautiful and kind people who treat women with respect and love. I know. I’m friends with these types.

So when a man whines to me about all women being awful people, all he's actually saying to me is, “I’m too fucking stupid to make good decisions.” And stupidity is ugly. Very very ugly.

6.      The Male Slut – Jesus Christ, this one is annoying. I get it, men like to get laid. They are hardwired to like getting laid. I don’t judge guys for having these urges. Maybe even acting out on them occasionally. But here’s the thing that male sluts never understand… there is a reason that the only women who actually want to be with them are trashy, emotionally unstable, insecure, mentally off, or amazingly stupid girls. Or all of the above. And there is a reason that good women are disgusted by them. Why, you ask? Because when a decent and confident female knows that a guy will sleep with anything or try to sleep with anything, she knows there is nothing special about him sleeping with her. And let’s face it, a stable woman wants to feel special. Emotionally and sexually. She knows that she is worth more than what he wants to give her. How does she know? Because what he wants to give her, he wants to give to anything with a hole.

The worst part is that most of these men act this way not out of out-of-control sexual urges but because of a desperate need for attention and deep down insecurity. So it’s not like you can be mad at them for it. Just very sorry. At a distance. Usually a bar lengths apart.

On a side note, I have seen a lot men fall into this trap after a terrible break up. This is the only time it is forgivable. It usually lasts for 6 months to a year (sometimes longer) and is part of their process, a revenge of sorts. But if it is not in their nature, it will never last. Just be careful ladies, wait until he finishes his sex tantrum before you try dating him.

7.      The Dolt – Fucking hell. If I have to explain anything to a guy like he is a Kindergartener, I’m immediately put off by him. He doesn’t have to be Albert Fucking Einstein. Maybe just know that the sun is a star, or that Africa is not a country, or that Joe Biden is the Vice President, or that Germany wasn’t the only country we fought during World War II, or that mixing blue and yellow makes green. It isn’t like I am being an elitist here. It’s just that if a man says he has graduated from high school, I want to be able to believe it.

Here are conversations I have had that have left me both ashamed of public education and completely in awe of how ridiculously stupid people can be.

Me: What’s the last book you read?

Him: Where the Red Fern Grows. They made me read it in high school.

Me: Okay… did you enjoy it at least?

Him: I don’t remember it. Was that the one where they shot the dog?

Me: No, that’s Old Yeller.

Him: Oh yeah. I liked that movie. 

Him: We went surfing in the Atlantic Ocean.

Me: I thought you were in Ventura? Like as in California.

Him: I was.

Me: The movie is on the 12^th chapter, thirteen minutes in. Just remember so we will know where we left off.

Him: How do you know that?

Me: It says on the DVD Player. CH12. 13:02.

Him: Wow. It’s like you read code!

Him: Our old house had a peanut tree in the backyard.

Me: No it didn’t.

Him: Why would I lie about that?

Me: No idea. But peanuts do not grow on trees.

Him: These did!

Me: No. They most certainly did not.

 

Whew! That took forever! It's like I never shut up.

BTW: Here's a little secret. If you are a man and you are reading this, most normal women have this exact list and we are judging you.

In other news… I feel like tonight I’m going to switch things up. Red wine and soup. Then Flying Saucer and cigars. For some reason, I felt you should know this. You are welcome.

A Moment of Nostalgia

Today I got nostalgic. It happens. It’s usually annoying. And it always comes on the tail end of some emotional moment I am having (part of owning a vagina, I suppose).

Back many years ago, before my marriage/divorce, I used to spend all my free time following local bands. Not in any groupie sort of way. More like an indy-nerd, support-local-bands sort of way. I had my favorites. Blood Sledge Electric Death Chickens being one of them. And I was a loyal follower.

I have never lived in a city with a punk music scene quite as talented and saturated as Detroit. Say what you will about that city (post-apocalyptic, murder on every corner, roads beyond repair), live there long enough and it will steal your heart. Especially if you have a little bit of rebellion in you. Especially if you have an ear for music.

Anyways, I decided to do a YouTube search on one of my favorite bands from that time, Grayling. I found only one video of them. The drummer was a different guy, the singer looked strung out, the bass player was lost. I posted it anyway, tagged my friend Shawn (the real drummer and one of the most amazing musicians I have ever had the privilege to meet and know), and asked if they would ever do a reunion.

Shawn emailed me immediately. The answer was no. There was a long and sad story as to what happened with the band and all the members. A book-worthy story, actually, fraught with tales of rockers gone wild and talent wasted on drugs. You know, a typical punk band break-up saga. There is never a happy ending to such things.  

His email brought back some heavy memories. Good and bad. I learned a lot of lessons the hard way back then. Not all of us made it out alive or drug-free or stable. But Shawn did. And I did. And a handful of others. And even though we are not the closest of friends, there is an unshakable bond between all of us. (Putting on my crazy war face) “We’ve seen things…”

I think all of us from that scene have an edge we try to keep buried. We throw alcohol on it and pretend we’ve always been the people we are now. Yet the one thing we seem to have in common is loyalty. I don’t know if we were born this way or if our situations have forced us to become this way. We support each other and show love to each other. And it is beautiful.

Here is a glimpse of two people who made it out alive –

Shawn: (After telling me the Grayling breakup story) I am on the road all the time now. Different city every week. Play in a crazy screaming band. We just got signed and have a cd/record coming out.  I’ll get the 3 Grayling CD’s we recorded to you. They are out of print but I can burn them.

Me: If you could do that I will pay you for it. You were fabulous in that band. One of the best drummers I have ever seen live. Also, let me know when your new CD comes out. I’d love to support you.
Shawn: You don’t have to pay anything. Just thank you for even thinking about me. My ex’s all took my original cd’s so I will have to burn them from old friends. I’d gladly hook you up.
Me: That would be awesome! But I definitely will pay you for your time and for being amazing.
Shawn: No money from you, honey. It’s all good!!
Me:  Ok. Let me know when you guys come through Dallas. I’ll come see you play.
Shawn: Absolutely.

See. Us old punkers, we are a sentimental bunch.

Speaking of musicians, you remember Musician Dude? Well, he’s back to the ‘I miss you’ texts. I refuse to answer him but if I thought it would do me any good, this is what I would say:

“Ahem! No, mother fucker, you do not miss me. You barely even knew me. I gave you advice about your ex (go to a therapist for that), listened to you bitch about your job (I’m sure your groupies will do this for you) and cracked a few witty jokes (Comedy Central, asshole, get it). You were self-centered and your gun collection speech was scary. Worst of all, you quoted Rush at me. Rush! God damn Rush! Any band would have been better than that. And if we are trading sentiment, I do not miss you in the slightest. I knew nothing about you and I am glad I kept it that way. I would tell you to piss off but I have come to my senses and put your number on my spam list. Au Revoir weird guitar player. May your death metal band bring you peace and happiness.”

An Evening With Wil Wheaton

Hanging out with the Wil Wheaton look-alike is always an adventure. Even if we do nothing. Don’t believe me? Well, fuck you. Case in point, last night…

The Meal

Wil: I feel out of sorts.

Me: Physically or mentally?
Wil: Physically. I think I just need to eat.
Me: Want me to bring you Taco Bell?
Wil: No. Not junk food. Something healthy.

A few hours later, Wil texted me asking if I would make him mac and cheese. Good choice, Wil. But not exactly a ‘healthy’ meal. Before I agreed to such a simple request, I offered to make him a quinoa casserole (sans veggies, of course). The idea of vegetables may scare Wil into starvation, but throw in a grain he has never heard of… a mega-healthy grain, nonetheless… and Wil will politely tell you to go fuck yourself. Mac and cheese it was.

I’m not the kind of girl to force healthy choices on anyone, myself included. Hell, my dinner had consisted of a handful of Ruffles and some French onion dip. Who was I to judge? So I didn't argue. And just to make sure his liver could participate in the slow-suicide-by-shitty-food-choices the rest of his body was enduring, I picked him up a four pack of Guinness before heading to his apartment. I’m thoughtful like that.

The Apartment

To say that Wil’s apartment is a ‘little messy’ is like saying a prostitute is a ‘little loose’. No, she isn’t a little loose, she is a gaping wide open whore. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re imagining some TLC Hoarders shit where boxes of useless items are piled to the ceiling. Well, you are wrong. Wil doesn’t hoard, he just doesn’t clean. So erase that image and picture this:

Will drinks a beer and leaves the empty can wherever he last sets it. Eight months ago. He takes off his clothes to play Super Mario (don’t ask) and leaves the pile of discarded garments on the floor. Six months ago. Even fluffs the dirty clothes up so his kitties can lay on them comfortably. If he finishes a pack of smokes, the empty pack is abandoned on a table, a counter, the carpet, the cat tree, the desk, the floor, etc. All of them have been there since 2010, I am sure of it.

So instead of some insane hoarder look, his place more closely resembles the morning after a very intense party where all the men got naked, drank a lot of beer, read historical fiction, smoked an insane amount of cigarettes and played video games all night.

Usually, I find messy places disturbing. I’m a germaphobe. The idea of nine month old pizza still sitting in a fridge is enough to make me want to pass out. But, strangely, Wil’s apartment does not upset me. His place is a living historical record. I can see exactly what in the last year he has eaten and drank, how many cigarettes he has smoked, what he has been wearing, what he has read, which games he has played, what color his hair was for Halloween, what his soda choices have been, how many times he has had a cold, where he went shopping (receipts are also cat toys) and every piece of mail he has received. It’s better than Facebook stalking. It’s real-life-but-without-any-effort stalking. Fascinating.

Why don’t you just clean it for him, you ask? What is this, 1953? Never ask me that again. Plus the sweet-girl-that-does-nice-things part of me is ALWAYS overshadowed by the lazy-girl-who-doesn’t-do-shit part of me. You should know that by now.

Anyways, last night I played a game I call “How many packs of cigarettes can I throw away without being noticed?” I made it to 11. It’s my new high score.

Hanging Out

We hang out and have sex. What more do you need to know? Sometimes we end up at a bar. Sometimes we never move from the couch. There is always intrigue and mystery and occasionally there is a dead body and a crime that needs solving. I might have made that last part up.

Sleeping with Wil

The most fun part about being around Wil is his sleep talking. I tell him it is like having tea with the Mad Hatter and I am not lying. Awake Wil is a little off in the head. Asleep Wil is completely bonkers. Here are some fun conversations we have had while he was sleeping.

Last Week –

Wil: (sitting up and holding down my head) You’re blocking ninja #9!!

Me: I’m sorry. Can you see him now?
Wil: No… he’s in the ocean.

This Weekend –

Wil: Do not get shit on my white pants!
Me: Why the fuck are you wearing white pants?
Wil: That’s not your business. Just keep your shit away from them.

Last Night –

Wil: You’re putting too much salt on it!!

Me: It needs flavor.
Wil: Look at what you’re doing! Do you really need that much salt?
Me: Yes, I do. I’m going to use all the salt I have on this thing.
Wil: Typical. I’m not eating it. (turns his back to me angrily)
Wil: (2 minutes later) Are you done yet?
Me: Still pouring salt.
Wil: On who?
Me: I thought we were talking about food?
Wil: People are going to be really mad at you.
Me: You included?
Wil: This isn’t about me. Now hush up.

You know, I am beginning to think everyone should spend an evening with Wil. I might have to capitalize on this idea. Maybe rent him out to friends and strangers. Hmm...

 

Let me know if you are interested.

 

Insane Bartender Boy

I had met him in a dive bar not far from where I lived. He was my bartender and he was damn good at it. At the time, I was a vodka martini girl. Dirty, of course. It isn’t easy to get a vodka martini ‘just perfect’. But he always did. Sadly, that was what won me over. His ability to pour a hell of a drink.

Had he not been a genius mixologist, I’m not sure I would have ever given him a second look. He was tattooed from head to toe, dressed like he was straight out of the 1950’s and was kicking the James Dean pompadour. Not that that look isn’t sexy. I’m just smart enough to know that Rockabillies are trouble. How so, you ask? Because I almost married one once.

Also, that look is so over (I’m doing my best Portlandia impression right now). I swear to god, if a guy is covered in ink and plays in a band, 9 times out of 10 he will ask me out. And I am neither of these things. In the first impressions department, I actually come off as a bit of a prude. I don’t sport any sort of edgy look, I certainly don’t look like a groupie and my guitar playing skills are… well, fucking awful. Maybe 20 years ago I looked the part but there is none of that in me now. Unless you count all my empty holes and my forever over-processed hair.

Anyways, I guess it was the way he asked me out that also won me over. Most men’s idea of a date is to meet up at the bar, possibly followed by late night beers at their place. Not a horrible way to spend an evening but not exactly a ‘date’ either. My bartender had gone the traditional route. He offered to pick me up for dinner and then to have cocktails at a wine cellar. Seemed old fashioned enough to be romantic. I said yes.

First thing he did was bring me flowers. How cute, you say? No. Not cute. I’m too lazy and awkward to be carting around a bunch of lilies everywhere I go. To me, flowers are something a guy should SEND to you, not give to you. Want to impress me? Try just being polite and classy and holding off on the dead plants until you’ve done something you need to apologize for or are looking to cheer up my bad day. Otherwise, I don’t want them.

Second thing he did was open all my doors. No complaints about that one. I may be a little snarky, I may come off as one of the guys, but deep down I am probably one of the most girly girls you will ever meet. I like pink things and kittens and pedicures and summer dresses and high heels and any sort of cheesy sentiment. And I like my doors opened for me. Take that women’s liberation!

He chose Italian, my second favorite kind of food, and we sat in a corner table and ordered our meals.

And then it happened. What happened, you ask? What usually happens when I go on actual ‘dates’? He opened his mouth and a shocking level of crazy came out. Maybe not ‘alien jesus’ crazy. But crazy enough for me to regret not meeting him in a bar… the one place where making a quick exit is the easiest.

Bartender Boy (BB): Have you ever heard of the Masons?

Me: Who hasn’t?
BB: Well, I’ve been doing some research and I’ve discovered some secret Mason documents.
Me: All Masonic documents are secret.
BB: Yes. But these are plans to take over the world.
Me: Are you serious or are you messing with me?
BB: I’m very serious. I’ve also discovered that they have secret meetings.
Me: Of course they do!! It’s a private organization for fuck’s sake!
BB: Yes but why all the hush-hush meetings and why all the hidden books and pamphlets?
Me: Please stop. My dad is a Mason. They aren’t trying to take over the world. And the secrets are only about how to be an individual with good character. There are no plans for world domination.
BB: Your dad is a Mason?
Me: I didn’t stutter did I? Look, I grew up with the Masons. I spend half my childhood in Masonic lodges. It’s just a bunch of old men getting together to network and to bring a little meaning into their lives. Hell, most of the secret meetings are about organizing charity events. It’s not evil-take-over-the-world shit. I promise.
BB: How do you know they haven’t brainwashed you? That’s what they do, you know. They enter your dreams and change the way you think.
Me: Wow. I get you might be a little crazy, so I am trying hard not to get mad at you, but you’re talking about my family right now. My father is a 3^rd degree Mason and belongs to the Knights Templar. So your paranoid delusions are hitting close to home. You should really research things before you start spewing History Channel conspiracy bullshit at people and calling my dad a god damn dreamwalker.
BB: Knights Templar? Like the medieval knights?
Me: No. Like Freemasonry, you fucking idiot. It's the 21st century. There are no more knights! 
BB: Don’t they have the hidden holy grail?!
Me: No! What the fuck is wrong with you? There is no such thing as a fucking holy grail either. Jesus.
BB: Oh my god. I am so fascinated by your family. I really want to pick your brain. I could talk to you for hours.
Me: I want you to take me home.
BB: No! I want you to see these documents. Will you come back to my place?
Me: Fuck no. In fact, I’ll take a cab home.
BB: Did they ever abuse you?
Me: If you open your mouth at me one more time, I swear to god I will shove my fist down your throat and rip out your insides.
BB: They really got into your head, didn’t they?

It was at this point I left the restaurant. I even left my jacket there. I didn’t have time to hail a cab and I certainly did not want to wait outside and risk seeing him again. Instead, I headed over to the Mexican Cantina next door and got sloppy drunk on margaritas. And when the bartender at that place started leaning in close and asking me questions, I politely told him to go fuck himself. I may make poor choices in the men I date, but I never make the same mistake twice.

Bartender Boy was also the last Rockabilly I ever said yes to. Let that be a lesson to all of you.