“You can’t cook and I’m too lazy to, and I don’t want our kids to eat Chipotle every night… Therefore I have to break up with you and go prance around all over Southern California with various women who fail to see my numerous short-comings and pray that my wit disguises what a fraud I am.”
Alright, that’s not exactly how it went down, but I SHIT YOU NOT, the first sentence was actually said to me. It was an ugly conversation about a now-dead relationship and I was stupid enough to ask what had always been “missing” about me in his eyes. And my culinary skills were at the top of his list. Whoa.
First off, Chipotle is amazing. And I probably would stuff my kids full of it if it wouldn’t make them fat. But I am a good (hypothetical) parent and don’t want to be the mom of the chubby-children, so obviously I will have to change up the menu a bit. But you know what is healthy?
Macaroni and cheese sandwiches. And scrambled eggs. And oatmeal. All things I am perfectly capable of making, even while drunk, thank you very much.
And even if I didn’t already have three impressive menu-starters, not being able to cook is sort of a moot point for a break up, seeing as it is completely temporary. It’s like not liking a teenager because he can’t drive. HE CAN’T DRIVE- YET. I can’t cook. YET. One day I’ll decide that it’s actually worth my time to come home and spend an hour making food that could have been made in two minutes, but seeing as it’s just me I’d cook for and that would be hugely depressing, I don’t.
More than anything, I’m entertained by the explanation. First, I didn’t know people still cared about cooking skills. (Don’t you own a microwave?) Second, what the fuck kind of a response was that? He could have picked my emotional instability, my needy response to everything, my cruel-wit, or how retardedly guarded I am- but nope. What our non-existant children will eat was his big pet peeve.
You can’t even mention future offspring to most men, but I managed to get dumped thanks to them. Way to make mommy look like a failure, kids.
To all the girls who love to frantically dance to the following lyrics in the middle of the bar:
If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.
Dont be mad cuz he seen it and he wants it.
Stop. Stop it right now. If he did in fact like it, then he probably would have put a ring on it. And no, no he is not mad because some equally sloppy drunk is now humping you from behind in the middle of the bar.
And what is the point of that dance? Flipping your hand repeatedly in your face to verify that, nope, still no ring. Damn, no ring when I hold it that way either… it’s not actually a dance move so much as it is something that people in psychiatric wards probably do. But hey, you are at least sending the message loud and clear that you are still very single.
You do not look like Beyonce. You look like an idiot. Put your (still ring-less) hand down and get married the old fashioned way: by getting yourself knocked up and cornering him into marriage.
*Inspired by the lovely woman who knocked my drink over while channeling Miss Knowles*
Alright kids, we are now commencing “Operation Stop Writing Emo Shit In The Middle Of The Night And Then Deleting It The Next Day Because It Was Not Only Poorly Written But Also Melodramatic.” Related: maybe posting without drinking wine would help… we’ll do a little research and I’ll get back to you.
Seriously, that emo girl I mentioned before that lives inside of me and writes emotionally charged emails/letters apparently finds her second-wind any time after midnight during the work week. She also has a penchant for white wine and emotional eating of Chipotle (cough, numerous times a week, cough). She’s fat. And ugly. And I’m going to forget that she dwells inside and write non-suicidal stuff for a little while. You’re welcome, all 2 of my loyal readers.
I’ve had some lovely conversations over the past 48 hours, and I think they deserve a little recognition… I also have nothing to write that isn’t pitiful, so we don’t have a lot of inspiring material. Eh.
Conversation between my boss, my coworker and myself:
Boss: No way, if the zombie apocolypse does occur, I am totally getting a shotgun.
Coworker: Eh, I like swords, I think I’d use a sword.
Me: You both are idiots, and will die first in the zombie apocolypse. First, a shotgun? What the fuck, they’re already dead. You’ll just give them a puncture wound before they eat you alive. And second, who the hell are you? Harry Potter? Swords? Can you even use a sword?
Coworker: Harry Potter had a wand. Not a sword. God you’re worthless.
Me: Shut up. Machetes all the way. Not only is it bad ass, but I can dismember the zombies and run away. Win, and win. Also, that’s cardio. Triple win.
This is alarming for a number of reasons. Mostly because at 10 in the morning, my office should have better things to do than contemplate the numerous ways of self-defense should reality ever start to resemble a bad 2008 movie. The life of a legislative staffer, ladies and gentlemen. Your tax payer dollars at work- finding new ways for me and my fellow public employees to reach new levels of (creative) mediocrity.
Conversation on Monday morning in my office:
Coworker: Where you watching the Superbowl?
Me: I make it an annual tradition not to. Men seem to really enjoy my disregard for sports… wait, who’s playing?
Coworker: Steelers and Packers.
Me: Hell yes. Packers.
Me: I dig those people wearing cheese blocks on their heads.
Boss: It is no longer a mystery why you are single. Well, it never really was… but now I think you’re just trying to deflect men.
Me: I’m still baffled by the lack of people in love with me. So that makes one of us.
No explanation necessary.
Conversation preceding the Superbowl one via text with Muscles:
Muscles: So I heard that you have had sex with more than three people. You told me three. You lied? It’s none of my business, but come on.
Me: (After debating how worth it it would be to even respond) Yeah… No good comes from a guy hearing a real number. I shouldn’t have lied, I apologize
Muscles: You’re a big person for being honest. Want to see No Strings Attached with me this weekend?
Hm. Cruel joke? I don’t want to see that stupid movie, and if you read my blog (or if you don’t, more likely, then you can read about my pre-emptive hatred of this movie here)- you know how I feel about it, but whatever. And is he trying to send me a subliminal message? And every girl lies about their “number,” so don’t you judge me. Actually, this topic is a whoooole other blog post, and one that I will save for when my mom stops being one of the two loyal readers (hi, mom!).
Conversation with D, the roomie:
D: You peaked in middle school, I peaked five years ago. That’s life. But you’re mature and succesful, so it doesn’t matter.
Me: Wait, is that a compliment?
Me: You’re awful at compliments. You’re saying I peaked a decade ago? I’ve got plenty of decades left, and you’re saying they’re all downhill from here?
That’s just depressing. And I didn’t peak in high school, I just discovered how much men loved mean women. (I may or may not have inspired that retarded book Men Love Bitches… but I don’t know because I didn’t read it). Now, I am still mean, but older men seem to not love bitches at this age… or they have noticed the
25 10 lbs I’ve gained since middle school. They love bimbos who yell along to a Ke$ha song blaring in the club while spilling their Red Bull/Vodka all over me. Or they go to those online dating sites and find someone there so they can continue on their road of blissful ignorance and bullshit existence… There I go, making absolutely NO reference to people I may have dated recently who definitely didn’t stomp all over my heart and add to my already sizeable self-esteem issues. Nope. Not at all autobiographical that last little vent.
I’d write more but I have to wash my hair since I
haven’t in a long time have a date tomorrow night with an athlete turned local lobbyist… Which sounds like a totally trust-worthy kind of guy, right?
I’m a big believer in happily ever after. I subscribed to Disney movies with a fervor that conservatives would envy, and I stand by my arguments of meant to be. Even with a broken heart and a jaded view of life, I am a vehement defender of all things mushy, and none of that makes me sad.
Yesterday, I had one of those days that reminds you to believe in God. I woke up early to great weather and the sun shining through my big window. Sitting outside of the patio of Panera, I read my book by myself and ate a sandwich while (unintentionally) eavesdropping on two people nearby. They weren’t a couple, maybe a brother/sister combo, or long-time male/female friends. When she got up to go to her car, she yelled over at him, “You’re loved.” He looked back and said, “You are too!”
Hearing that exchange made me inexplicably happy. There I was, by myself in the middle of the day, anxiousy awaiting a brazilian wax that was sure to be inexplicably painful and I couldn’t help but feel myself light up behind my massive sunglasses. How awesome was that, I thought to myself. That’s all we ever want to hear… That we’re loved, by anyone in this big, crazy world. And the way they did it, like it was so obvious that the other was loved, adored by another was absolutely refreshing and in a way that I so desperately needed to hear. Whoever they are, wherever they went after their lunch, I owe them both a debt of gratitude… I felt loved by simply being nearby such a nonchalant good-bye. And I ask anyone who reads this to just remind someone they love them today, right now. You never know how much someone you adore needs to hear it, and you never know what sort of blessing you’ll inflict by spreading your message to those fortunate enough to be near to listen in.
I fell in love. I stumbled into what I was certain was meant to be, and I was mistaken. The same man who wondered at my stubborn dedication to fairy-tale futures was the same one to prove himself right. My father was unfaithful. The boss that I swore would change the world couldn’t salvage his own marriage because of his lack of integrity. And the man I prayed for every night turned out to be one of the same crowd. I don’t give up on my hope for love though, or my belief that everyone has a someone out there meant to love them for the absolute wreck we all are. I give up on him. I give up on the person I so sincerely believed him to be… the person he didn’t believe in himself enough to become.
That’s okay. though. We live, we learn, and we go on. I’m no exception to this rule.
I spent the day on the patio of a bar with my best friend. Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, and I will no doubt spend it working, I have come to term with this. But as we left the bar, I came across an interesting sign…
My roommate and I died laughing… For different reasons. Her Valentine’s Day is going to be Santa Barbara with a guy who would give both legs to see her smile. My valentine’s day will be something more along the lines of the people who will hang out with their pets. Frankly, I’d rather just be alone than hang out with Charlie the Miracle Dog.
But regardless, I found myself smiling. Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate the people you love, not just the people you love who have the opposite genatalia. And yes, I find it a silly holiday, but the purpose is something inherently endearing to me. It’s a day when the majority of the American population get on my level and succumb to the idea that you can love someone enough to change the world, or at least, your own world.
People leave. They’ll disappoint you, or hurt you, or make you feel like you deserve to be unhappy (which is never true). The trick is to never let them trick you into believing that they are the whole representation of love, because they aren’t- especially if they make you doubt it. I’m a cynic with a seriously soft-heart, and that heart is filled with people I don’t remind often enough that they are more than I could dare to think I deserve.
So, do me a favor: don’t wait until Valentine’s Day or some other cheesy Hallmark-induced holiday to remind the people close to you that they make you smile. Also, please don’t bring your dog to the bar on Valentine’s Day. Softie as I may be, I will ridicule you.
But hold on to what you believe in the light
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight
So hold on to what you believed in the light
Thanks, Hollywood. If The Bachelor and Rock of Love (full disclosure: I was an avid watcher of RoL) didn’t put the final nails in the coffin of hope-for-emotional-health, you seem to being your damnedest to finish us off.
Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman (why won’t she just go away?!) are in a new movie called No Strings Attached- essentially about two ridiculously good looking, succesful friends who begin to sleep together under the guise of Friends with Benefits, which is just a longer name for a bootycall. I admit, Ashton Kutcher is pretty hot, and I highly doubt my ability to turn him down if he ever prompted me- which I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t, and I don’t know any man who would look at Miss Portman (even if she is knocked up) and say, “I’d really rather not.” But that is not the point of me writing any of this.
The point is that Friends with Benefits (FWB) is buuuuulllshit, and partially responsible for perpetuating this inability we are plagued with regarding commitment. I’m not going to go see that movie… 1: because it is not part of the Twilight Saga. 2: Because I am not donating money to movies that make me angry. And 3: I do not need to watch a predictable chick-flick to remind me that I am romantically doomed.
It’s easy to say that you are just “looking for a good time,” or “expressing yourself,” but in reality, you’re making decisions that are going to cripple you in the future when you actually are faced with someone you genuinely care for. I know of NOBODY who has participated in the booty-call system without one part of the couple becoming attached and consequently let down. Everything in life takes practice, and that includes caring about people and being a good partner. If all you know is sex with no strings attached, you won’t know how to function if you ever get butterflies looking at someone… I digress, though.
Further- isn’t sex better when you, oh, I don’t know, care about the person?? Why volunteer for mediocre sex that you don’t even get free dinner with? It’s demeaning, and it’s dangerous and it’s setting an awful precedent. Most frightening- it’s completely common and acceptable.
Sex is a fundamentally emotional thing. Why that is, I don’t know and I don’t care. But when you strip it down to nothing but penetration and friction, you strip yourself down to just a bunch of bones and nerve-endings in a bag of flesh (wow, I should write erotic stuff). The physical aspect counts, but the romantic connection is the most crucial part of the whole scenario. Our generation, especially the women, have become experts at participating in sex without letting your heart get involved. (This is why D recently told me the way I viewed dating was “ancient.”) And movies like this make it look glamorous, and fun and completely without consequence- which it absolutely isn’t.
I am an active participant in a lot of my generation’s stupid habits. I go to the bars and put myself on the “meat market.” I spend money waxing parts of my body that see the light of day only in the shower. I wear shoes that will give me arthritis, and I spend outrageous amounts of money on them. I put my life on display for strangers on facebook and obligingly stare at my cell-phone for 6 hours a day completely at the mercy of others. I can’t do the bootycall thing, though. I either don’t have the self-confidence to strip for a stranger, or I just have too much dignity to strip for a stranger; it’s all perception I guess.
But I am so fed up with everything on television and online telling me that I’m prude. Trust me, I’m not… but compared to the average 20-something girl in Orange County, I’m beginning to feel like Mother freakin’ Theresa, which is absurd. So we can go ahead and add this new movie to the “list of things I loudly boycott that nobody else understands.” (Also on this list: socks, El Pollo Loco, Hybrid cars, and recycling).
*Additional note: I write things like this and I think maybe I’ve finally lost my mind. I’m really tired, so it’s possible that this didn’t make sense. In essence I’m just sad that all my dreams of fairy-tale futures that Hollywood once made plenty of money perpetuating have eroded into this beast of sexuality without any sensuality. Also- I’m celibate. So maybe I’m just jealous.*
update: just heard that No Strings Attached is the TOP movie in the country. America is actively trying to become less intelligent apparently
I am posting this from my blackberry- so stop looking at all the grammatical errors because there will be plenty.
I don’t think Radissons are nice hotels- but I rarely travel so I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem like a nice hotel… And I didn’t think I had to stay in a hotel if I live 4 mins away but the crazy Republican lady program is making me and my “roommate” for the evening bailed so she could stay with her husband who showed up, leaving me looking for someone- anyone- to go to the bar downstairs with me…. Because sitting in my little room with its two beds all night by myself is creepy. And sad.
Anyway- I was sort of pleased when I saw that the beds were sleep numbers… You know the commercials: a happy couple reminisces about not so happy days because she’s fat and needs a softer mattress and he’s got a bad back from all his days working in the prison yards so he requires some firmness…. And then wha-fuckin-la! Sleep number beds offer the best of both worlds, everyone’s happy, and then they creepily end the commercial with “what’s YOUR number?”
I looked into it. My number is none of the fucking above. It’s essentially an air mattress that you can inflate to various levels of discomfort- none all that much better than the other. And it sounds like a vortex coming to eat you in your sleep. If my husband needed a little extra firmness in the night (mind out of the gutter, please), I’d break his nose because no way in hell do you sleep through that noise.
Sleep number beds suck, don’t buy one. You’re better off sleeping on a pool floaty, and you didn’t even have to spend a sad night alone at a Raddisson to find that out. You’re welcome.
I’m only 23, which is by no means anywhere near alzheimers or broken hips or divorce… well, I take back that divorce comment. What I mean to say is that I am still young, but I was a little blind-sided by how I have managed to morph into an adult without even recognizing it. Here I was, thinking that if I just continued on my merry way of poor life choices and boozing it up on work nights that I could maintain some level of youthfulness. Guess what? I was wrong. WAYYY Wrong.
Here’s how I know I’m growing up (prepare to be depressed when you realize you are also getting old and will die soon):
- My favorite gift this Christmas? A steamer. Which was awesome on a number of levels: like I’ll save money on dry cleaning since my dry cleaner is a douchebag but really close to my apartment, and I won’t have wrinkly clothes.
- I had the tools required to put the steamer together, before realizing I needed tools for this bad boy. A few years ago, I spent two dollars on a swiss-army knife thing that had a little screw-jobby from IKEA and I thought I had hit the domestic-jackpot. These days, I don’t fuck around. I’ve got legit tools… Like 3 of ’em.
- I could survive in the wilderness with great hair using only the items I have in my purse. My purse has enough hair-spray, gum, little flossing things, toilet paper covers, tiny brushes, mascara, combs and reading material to keep me looking nothing short of gorgeous in the fucking jungle… If I ever did anything that would result in jungle-dwelling… which I don’t. So maybe I’m just showing early symptoms of hoarding… Which would suck.
- Anti-oxidants have definitely climbed their way up the list of priorities (meaning they went from obscurity to somewhere in the mid 50’s). I take vitamins. Everyday. (It’s what responsible folks do). Yes, they are gummy ones, and yeah they might have sugar on them but they are delicious and I am healthy and taking preventative measures to not wither away prematurely.
- This is more like 4 and a half, because it’s basically the same thing, but about tea. I drink tea from my little mug in my office everyday, and I get genuinely excited about new flavors of tea… Then I drink it and think I probably look really grown up with my glasses and my mug and my sweater. Normally I decide sometime in this line of thinking that I will be a great novelist.
- Eye cream. A small fortune has been spent on what I’m pretty sure is normal lotion just in a smaller container that reminds me every night that one day I will need botox.
- Men have gone from people that buy me dinner to other people’s ex-husbands and baby-daddys. Gone are the days of dating charming but degenerate servers, chasing the guy who is chasing his (doomed) dream, and romantic spontanaeity. The baggage is closing in, and it’s practically forcing me to settle.
- Keeping with the above observation… Growing up resulted in a sad realization of what I wanted in a guy, which, unfortunately is as follows: good looks trump bad style. Smart
trumps good looks. Funny trumps smart. Meaning I’m going to marry Chris Farley… awesome.
- Sex takes on a different role… this is one of the better observations probably. It goes from being awkward and scary and one of those things that always makes you vow you’ll lose 10 pounds immediately, to a way to be intimate with someone while finding a really special, mutual vulnerability (if you do it right).
- 10. EMAILS. I love them. Phone calls< Texting< Emails< Letters. But nobody writes letters anymore (except the very emo girl inside of me that I normally keep muzzled) so I settle for emails which are pretty much the modern version. I email everyone; my parents, my friends, my sorority sisters, my boss… an ex here and there… As I get older, I find that I use bigger words and less acronyms in texts, meaning that I require more room for my impressively mature vocabulary… Leading to my love of emails. The perfect combo of technology and literary awesomeness.
There you have it. Symptoms of adult-hood. Granted, I only have use of one nostril right now because I think I got tuberculosis last night and I’m currently high on medicine so I can participate in my super elitist republican-lady program (I got accepted! youngest one! woo!) tomorrow without sneezing on everyone. So this may not really be all that applicable to anyone, or even me once I’m out of my pharmaceutical-induced haze.
There are an alarming number of people driving without a working headlight. Including me. Sign of the apocolypse? I think so…
This post has nothing to do with the title… but that was an observation that needed to be made, and I utilized some space-saving measures by throwing it in the title. While driving to my volunteer thing tonight I was alarmed by how many people were as irresponsible and not on tope of their game as me. I’m wondering if this is affiliated with all those birds dying everywhere. Maybe. Irrelevant, yes. Do I care? no.
I have lots to write about because D makes bad life choices and she said I practiced “ancient” dating techniques, but I’m too lazy. And I was having an awesome day until I got some news that pissed me off to new levels of fire coming out of my eyeballs so I’m gonna vent real fast about those people that I have to share the earth with that have penises and issues: Why is it that a man with self-confidence problems is probably far worse than any chick with daddy-issues? And then WHY do they think that if they pretend like they’re just deep, melancholy people and cool with their miserable existence than nobody will notice how absolutely terrified they are of reality and just manning the hell up? Newsflash Jor- er, guys: WE KNOW.)
Anyway, I clearly was a little grumpy… Until I came home to a box of cheesecake waiting for me at my apartment. That travelled all the way across the damned country to get here. Because some people don’t suck.
There is no moral to this story, and if there was, it would be that cheesecake has reinforced
my hope in humanity.
Also, met a guy last night who I gave my email (update: he got my cell number too, but actually asked for my email so he could send me some stuff he’s working on since he’s a writer and either wants to show off or make me uncomfortable) to, making him either the most creative or sneaky mother fucker I’ve ever met on a Monday night in Costa Mesa. But he was *really* cute, and fucking brilliant so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
*This post kind of ruined my whole promise that I’d write awesome stuff all year. Hm. I should not make such serious promises in writing. Now THERE’S a resolution for ya (hint. hint.)*
**I just edited this.. sort of… because evidently last night I forgot how to spell in my cheesecake-eating frenzy. Still, I bet I missed a few**
We’ve created a monster. By “we” I mean men, of course. Men created this beast of suspicion and manipulative thinking with too much free time and ready access to the internet. Which is far more dangerous than anyone realizes, unless you’re like me and devote pathetic amounts of time to thinking about obscure things like this. I hope, for you’re sake, you’re not like me.
Anywho. I’ve mentioned this before, and it’s a regular topic amongst my girlfriends and I, but I just googled myself (I do this quite regularly, actually) and was not very excited about the results. I have a fairly unique name which makes it pretty easy to know if google or facebook or twitter is actually referencing me or someone else masquerading as me. Because I regularly use the internet as a weapon against men I date, I like to make sure that whatever someone could find on me via some creeping isn’t too unsavory.
I was quite disappointed to find that the internet (and probably the world at large) does me NO favors in the realm of cyber-espionage. I don’t seem all that interesting, the pictures are horrendous, and it’s a lot of dated stuff that would lead someone to believe I have no life and just loiter around sorority houses. It doesn’t even have any cool “maybe she’s a bad-ass” or “wait, is that illegal?” references. Google image-searching me does however, result in a shit ton of pictures of fur coats, which is so totally relevant considering I can’t even afford a fur coat and even if I could, I’d have to be rufied to wear it. Damn you, misleading search engines.
Before I get too wrapped up in my own results, it should be mentioned that facebook/google/twitter/linkedin/myspace and a few other social sites have been invaluable in my dating successes (cough fails cough). Since I’m absolutely maniacal if I get a purpose and a keyboard in front of me, I’ve been able to dig up criminal histories (lots of DUI’s in 20-something men these days) relationship statuses, and uncovered various “deal-breakers” before even walking into the first date. Never go in un-armed, is the lesson I suppose I’m trying to relay. And of course, never become un-armed because men are stupid and not to be trusted and will sooner or later fuck up without having he brains to cover it up correctly on the internet. At which point you
go all Lorana Bobbit on his ass adddress it like an adult and explain that the sheer number of facebook friends you have means there is no such thing as a secret anymore in his world. In a totally non-you-may-want-to-get-a-restraining-order kind of way, of course.
Our generation is the first one to traverse this territory that stupidly combines internet and romance. We were the kids in chat rooms in the 90’s and the ones giggling at mentions of “cybering.” Our peers pioneered friendster and myspace and then watched the phenomenon of facebook take over basic human interaction in all developed countries. And then, a few broken-hearted women managed to turn all those things into yet another weapon against the men that pissed them off, all before men even knew what the fuck hit them. And still, as women trade log-ins to see what they are barred from otherwise viewing and googling into page 44, men underestimate the levels of
crazy dedication we can reach when we have enough wine and time. The point is: we’re making up the rules as we go, and the rules, as I understand them are quite simple. To summarize- if it’s on the internet and at all accessible without a security clearance from the Department of Homeland Security, it’s fair game. Men will have to learn to defend themselves a little better, and they no doubt will find a way to do that and continue on with their tendency to act first, think later without the ramifications of some crazy exes blowing up his statuses on facebook and tagging him in all kinds of things never meant for the public to see. But in the meantime, men would be smart to remember that the internet, despite its attractive fantasy-sports leagues and plethora of porn is not their friend. Not even kind of.
I asked someone recently what the difference was between generic curiosity and actual “creeping.” The answer? When it has the capacity to hurt your feelings.
It was less than 24 hours ago that I was sitting in a bar with D, telling her that I officially had nothing to blog about because I had a very close to non-existent love life. Okay, it is non-existent unless you count that guy I make out with sometimes who’s adorable but an absolute idiot. Think Jason Stackhouse (if you watch True Blood), and if you don’t (you suck) think Ken Doll. Anyway… I was fully prepared to take a break from blogging, I didn’t think my mom would miss reading my blathering that much anyway.
And then God felt bad for me (because I’m going to be a cat lady) and stuffed the hours following that conversation full of blogworthy awesomeness that I no doubt will wreck while trying to explain.
I hung out with members of a known biker gang last night. What did YOU do?
I don’t do drugs, or ride motorcycles, or have a history of self-destructive behavior (ish)… but I love A&E and all those shows about people who do any combination of those things. Last night, I got to recreate one of those shows with my new friends Creeper, Tombstone, Jeff and the other ones whose names I don’t remember. (Jeff got kind of screwed as far as the naming went). Tombstone looked like Santa- if Santa had a serious meth problem and an affinity for leather and Creeper was missing a prominent tooth…But it’s cool cuz he had shit tons of tattoos. ON HIS FACE. One of which being a tear drop that I may or may not have stared at the entire time I talked to him.
Because I was thinking what an awesome blog this would be (and because when I drink I don’t think about how ridiculous I am), I took a picture of Tombstone and Little Black on my phone. Then they made me delete it, and show them all the pictures on my phone to make sure I didn’t have any evidence of some of the scariest mother fuckers I’ve ever seen, let alone drank with. And since I have a sincere love of awkward, and a sincere love of people who are bat-shit crazy- last night those two loves met, and gave birth to some awesome conversations. Conversations actually may not be the best word, as a lot of it consisted of me badgering these old dudes about what the patches meant, why he had a tear drop, if he sold drugs, if he’d, “like, ever killed someone”, if they believed in God, what their *real* jobs were, and if they were ever on A&E. Most of the answers consisted of some shocking shit, but some of them were just a scary smile and a “You don’t wanna know, little girl.”
And then D pimped it up and gave her number out like it was on sale and I watched and drank and watched some more. Lesson of this whole thing: biker clubs (the term “biker gang” I’ve learned is actually not very politically correct nowadays) are not blackberry friendly, but aside from that, they’re really quite pleasant.
**Oh yeah, and one of my roommates may have given her number to the youngest one and now I think we’re gonna get stalked because it turns out he’s married and some other stuff so if I stop blogging, I either died or I actually did just run out of shit to say. Good luck figuring that out.**