At no point in my life planning did I foresee pretty much anything that has actually happened. I am not, it would seem, psychic even a little bit.
But hey, it’s Thursday night and we are moving right into a 3 day weekend (thanks Veterans!) and I’m at home, in my bed, eating vitamins because I’m too lazy to go downstairs for real food. I don’t even think I have food though, so lost cause. And- I have a leg cramp and I think the vitamins should fix that?
I’ve been a little “off” lately. Obviously, I’ve been a negligent blogger (to say the least), I’ve been moody (aka grumpy), I’ve been kind of lethargic and I spend a lot of time reading (did you ever read Lolita? I’ts awful, don’t). Most of those things I can actually contribute to being on new birth control and even if it’s not actually the birth control’s fault, I’m going to use it as an excuse.
Yep. On birth control. My ovaries are no-swim zones which is nice and sort of silly because I’m not having regular sex. But the doctor offered and I thought, “Every time I wish I was on it I never am. This would be smart. This must be what growing up is like.” So I took it, and I’ve been completely wretched to be around ever since. I suppose that’s the magic in birth control, at the rate my moods have been going nobody will want to be near me, let alone get me naked. (Although, my breasts are MASSIVE, so there’s that.)
I wish I had some great story to post, and it’s not for lack of stories or dumb things I’ve done recently that I’m not posting them, it’s more that I’m too lazy and this leg cramp WILL NOT GO AWAY. And some (all?) of them are really embarrassing and are partially the reason why I haven’t been drinking lately.
And you know what? Everyone was right- I am way less fun sober.
So, you’ve chopped off your husband’s penis. Okay, maybe he was about to become your ex-husband and maybe you poisoned him and maybe you thought it would add a little somethin’ to the story if you tied him to a bed and used a ten inch knife to castrate him… Obviously if you’ve planned this far ahead, you know exactly what to tell the cops after you calmly tell the 911 operator that yeah, there’s a bit of a medical emergency in your apartment.
What, everyone will wonder, were your words of brilliance that comprised the reasoning for such a brutal deed? Obviously: “He deserved it.”
That, ladies and gents, is the kind of woman who lives in the same lovely county as I do. This crazy bitch CUT OFF HER HUSBAND’S PENIS. WITH A KNIFE.
Oh, but it gets better… because really, once you’ve dismembered the same man you promised to love and cherish til death (or unfortunate litigation) do us part, why not go a little crazy?
She… God, it hurts to even write it… she… she put… his penis… down…the garbage disposal. Ack…the noise that must have made!?!
Loraina Bobbit, wherever that nut-case is, must be writhing with jealousy of this lady who dared to so blatantly one up her. And I, in the comfort of my room (after having sent this story to almost everyone I know), am writhing with some sort of morbid curiosity at what has to go so fucking wrong in your life that this seems like even a slightly acceptable idea.
Upon telling D about it, she pointed out that really it’s the only way to make sure your ex doesn’t sleep with anyone else… but really, after they imprison you or find you a cozy, padded cell, you won’t be doing the deed with anyone either. Unless Freddy Kruger is looking for a lady friend.
The Libra asked me where I was last night, trying to insinuate that I am capable of such outbursts. (For the record: I am not. I might get a little needy, or throw a tantrum from time to time, but I will leave you with your penis).
My coworker simply said, “Please, please don’t tell me you think this was cool.”
And now that the story has spread like wild fire and men the world over are investing in pad-locked protection for their members, you’ve got to be concerned that shit like this even goes on on a Monday night. Personally, I’m concerned that shit like this goes on in what seems to be a high-end, affluent, relatively normal community. Have we, as a culture, moved so far past the predictable, I’m-burning-all-your-stuff-because-you-suck acts, that we succumb to physically marring someone? Revoking their man-card in the most literal (and disturbing) sense?
You know this bitch was thinking that she wanted to cause some irreprable damage. She was sending a message. I pray to the heavens I never have to understand that message, but hot damn! Was she calm through the whole ordeal? “Oh, you need that? Hm… well, look, yeah, there’s still bits and pieces left! We’ll just sew it back on. There! Good as new. You’re fine honey, stop whining, you’re just making it bleed worse.”
It’s a penis. They NEED those… that’s where they store all their hopes and dreams and aspirations for future and self worth. It would be like robbing me of my wit. (ha. ha).
Sigh. There’s a man out there, in critical condition now, without a penis. And a woman, in jail, probably getting high-fives from her fellow basket-cases.
And there’s me… morbidly relieved that there are people out there so out of their trees that they make me look not only normal, but awesome, and wondering what the motherfuck anyone could do to actually deserve getting Lorana Bobbitted.
Gentlemen, hide your penises. She’s coming for them.
Remember that one Valentine’s Day where you were going to stay home, drink a glass of wine and catch up on work, then maybe watch a movie and get some desperately needed rest?
No? That’s right! You got drunk and went to the bars for a completely predictable lonely-hearts club party and got wasted before getting NO sleep and going to work hungover and TORE. UP. Bravo.
This is the conversation I had with myself yesterday morning while hazily trying to remember where my keys, lipgloss, and pride were.
Anyway, that was my Valentine’s Day…. And just for good measure, I fell both in and out of love in the course of half an hour and now have a stalker.
I was engrossed in conversation with easily the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a long time and I was silently singing the praises of the Valentine’s Gods for finally cutting me some romantic slack. Yeah, he was totally rocking the grungy, artsy thing but he owned his own company. Because I had maybe one too many glasses of wine by this point, I just reveled in my good luck, and didn’t consider that a guy like that realistically doesn’t exist. But no, I was busy being enamored with my good fortune. It was the best of both worlds. An artsy capitalist. A tall artsy capitalist. A HOT, tall artsy capitalist.
But… then… under his beanie (yes, beanie), I thought… wait… did I just… is that… do you have GREEN hair? “Yeah, I’m super pissed it was supposed to be blue.” Oh… Well. No, that’s not better.
“I write music too, the tattoo on my arm is my own lyrics actually.”
… Because OF COURSE they are.
And after about 45 minutes and 9 red flags later (not even counting the botched Marge Simpson hair), I realized I had not seen him with any friends. At all. Fuck. Did I just give my number to a guy who came to the bars ALONE on VALENTINE’S DAY?
Yes. Yes I did. And now he won’t stop texting me about how “sad” he is.
And I had hoped to make out with a stranger, but didn’t. (This was, strangely enough, disputed) I have some sort of inherent cock-block tendency though that reared its ugly head that evening. I generally do not do well with the sort of meet-a-stranger-let-em-touch you kind of game. I’m awkward, and I need to validate every physical encounter I have. In other words: if I make out with you, I expect us to date. If you see me naked, we’re practically facebook official. In essence I was silently screaming in my head “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?” at everyone in the bar that evening. Well, not everyone. The guy with green hair already did love me.
…Because OF COURSE I would manage to attract only certifiably insane loners.
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’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.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m fairly certain that men are taught all kinds of questionable things throughout life that they later unleash on unsuspecting female victims (me). Sadly, the list goes on… I’m going to start periodically updating the list because it seems to grow with every new guy I meet who mistakenly thinks that his bullshit lines and backwards hats will leave me falling all over myself to take his pants off.
- Cargo shorts. Abercrombie made a bunch, mass produced them and then sent forth the poorly-dressed masses… still donning enough pockets to carry food for the next year. Cargo shorts have a purpose… I understand and appreciate that some people (homeless, carpentry-folks) need to carry lots-o-stuff in their pants. The average guy on a Sunday does not. THROW THEM AWAY. (A related one would be puka-shell necklaces. The 90’s were cruel to men).
- The “I’ll bring my friends, you bring your friends” meet-up. I have a number of complaints with this. First off, very rarely does one hot guy come with 4 hot friends. More often than not, i.e. last weekend for me, the hot guy comes with his random friend who belongs in a 70’s porn and his other friend who turns out to be gay. Let me be clear- I am neutral towards both gay and 70’s porn, but my friends have no desire to date either. Plus, if you’re not man enough to see me one-on-one, even if I am admittedly slightly crazy, I don’t really need to continue seeing you…. (there are exceptions to this rule).
- I’ve said this before, but: guys who consistently flaunt their money. I am not a gold digger. You are not that hot. This will not work no matter how many times you flash me the wad of cash in your wallet. Living in Orange County, I’m inundated by these types of guys.
- The “up-down.” The only time this has ever, ever worked is in Friends. Joey’s character up-down’s girls and then follows up with a super-guido “how YOU doin’?” Admittedly, Joey is an endearingly dumb man with magical female skills. But the thing to take note of is that this is not reality. It is in fact, an episode of television. Period. But when I’m strolling through a bar dodging the super-drunk girls and the super-creepy guys, catching a man follow the line of my body from top to bottom is far from flattering. Stop it.
- Grammar in texts. Well, grammar in general is a big thing for me. Men are a little lackluster in this area, which I completely forgive and find borderline attractive. What I can’t stand is when they go crazy with the punctuation. “Do I get 2 c u this wknd???!!?” Sweet Jesus. If you text like that, then hell no. It’s alarming, and I feel more pressured than flattered that you want to see me. “Whatcha up to???” How curious are you?! Does it really warrant three question marks? Just the one would send the message… is your finger stuck? Did you fall asleep on your iphone keyboard? It’s confusing… and weird.
- Peeing in things that are not toilets. This should never happen between dates 1-25. And after date 25, it should happen sparingly, if ever.
- Drunk texts. Everybody likes someone who knows how to have fun. But when my phone is buzzing itself into vibration-heaven at 3am, you go very rapidly from entertaining to annoying. And when you wake up to texts like my roommate did the other morning that make no sense and read, “Hi im food are you awake?” you lose a lot of points really quickly. Drunk texts are great if you’re deep into a relationship, or if it’s an ex spilling his heart, allowing you for a brief victory dance. However, the only thing worse than drunk texts is probably drunk texts that the guy can’t remember sending… way to be a douche.
The list goes on. I will say that women have equally misguided tendencies. For instance, a friend told me that a recent study performed on men between the ages of 18 and 30 showed that men are actually most attracted to the collarbone of all the parts on a woman. I tested the theory out. For two weeks, I wore collar-bone accentuating shirts. Let me tell you- men may enjoy a good collarbone from time to time, but they’re all suckers for some good cleavage. Lesson learned.