I can totally see better with one eye closed right now.
We recently went out for Bakers birthday! The drinking started at the beach bar in the early afternoon. We had to request more soda for our drinks because they were that strong. We were happy to get our moneys worth but damn, it wasn’t 5 o’clock anywhere.
There was a 3rd grader at the table behind us that was far too loud. My first thought was she is going to be even more annoying as she gets older. She was the youngest person at their table, thus probably the dumbest. But she was dominating the conversation like she owned the fucking place. If that was me, my parents would have been like “pipe down with your pre-adolescent bull shit.” The little girl commanded the attention of the table like it was the state of the union address. She then confidently said “Not that it would ever happen, like ever, but would you rather die by drowning or get eaten by a shark?” First of all, it could happen. Florida is practically the capitol of unprovoked shark attacks. Second of all, what kind of question is that? Aren’t you just a sadistic, little 7 year old? I don’t consider this to be appropriate lunch conversation. Third of all, DROWN! Duh.
We attempt to continue drinking at dinner, but that is a bust because they are out of House Margaritas? How does that even happen?
After dinner we hit up our favorite waterfront bar to meet up with more friends. We notice a random guy sitting alone on the corner of the deck. We make up a story that he is a writer. He keeps looking at us, probably wondering why we keep looking at him. We are convinced that we just became characters in his novel. I am drunk. My friend dares me to go ask him why he is there alone.
5 minutes later he is coming with us to play pool at the next destination. I’d like the record to show that I did NOT invite him. In his words, he “overheard us talking about leaving” and wanted to come with us because he wasn’t a local. According to him, he was a fourth grade teacher. Coincidentally, one of my friends is also a teacher. They talked. Multiple red flags were raised. He was a weird one. His name was Amun, “like the sun god”. We asked him how old he was. His response? “Do you know how old our Lord Jesus Christ was when he died? I’m that age.” That at least answers the question of why he is there alone. I think he had some sort of God complex. Eventually, Baker started interrogating him about being a teacher. She told him not to bullshit her. Not even God could help him. He got scared and left.
I go to the jukebox to play music. I couldn’t get my bill into the machine, mostly because I wouldn’t put my drink down to straighten the crumpled dollar. A random guy, comes over and offers to help. It goes right in. Drunk. He returns to whatever he was doing and I play Britney Spears and Bob Marley. Can you dig it?
His friend approaches me and I introduce myself. He says “I’m Luke, we’ve met before.” I argue “no, I don’t remember you. I think you are thinking of someone else.” He continues to argue with me saying I have a face he couldn’t forget. Awkward.
Then he says “you were wearing a peach dress.” Creepy. And awkward.
I’m still momentarily baffled because I have always thought that dress was orange. He knows my wardrobe better than I do.
Baker walks over and I introduce him “Baker, this is Lance.” He corrects me, his name is Luke. Awkward. I still don’t remember him. He reminds me that the night I met him, I was way more interested in his friend. Wow, Lance sure does know how to keep a conversation awkward.
The night I met him was the night I felt like a slutty cinderella. There was a nice guy and a cute guy. Guess which one he is.
Anyway, it turns out he is friends with the jukebox helper, Marcus. Marcus confesses to Baker and I that he “has to be honest, he just got out of prison.” Oh, fabulous! Don’t only rapists and pedophiles have to be up front about that kind of thing? Clearly, we need to find new places to hang out.
Lance invites us to his beach house that is not far from there that is stocked with rum. Marcus will also be accompanying us. Beach house? Sounds fancy. Rum? Sounds like fun. I ask him what his name is again. I’m way past beer goggles at this point. I’m just straight up fucking blind. Then, I ask Baker if she is willing to go. She agrees. Only because she is drunk. He gives us the address. Baker says “Marcus, we will meet you at the gas station to pick up some cola to mix with the rum.” He corrects her, his name is Maurice. Whoops.
We get to the gas station which looks shady as hell. But I guess all gas stations look shady at 3 in the morning. She opens the car door and tells me she will be right back. I tell her I want to come with her. She says no, stay here and keep the doors locked. Which is pretty much what every person says right before something horrific happens.
A couple minutes later she comes back to the car with a 2 liter of cola with a frustrated look on her face. Apparently, Lance made a comment that it was a lot of soda for his amount of rum. She is pissed because she felt we shouldn’t even go if the rum is that limited. I agree but it’s too late now…we bought the soda.
Just because the town has ‘beach’ in the name does not mean the house is literally on the beach. I got shafted. The house was poorly decorated and smelled like the 1950’s.
The four of us took a lot of group selfie pictures. All of which confirm that I drank too much. None of which I wish to share.
Around 5 a.m. Lance/Luke and I went into his kitchen to put the rum back in the fridge. There was old, rotting corn on the stove. It was definitely time to go. Baker had also had enough of her conversation with the felon, who she found out had a couple kids that he really loves. Whatever.
We say our goodbyes and hightail it outta there.
The next day Lance text messages me multiple times. I do not respond. The day after that he calls me multiple times. I do not answer. The third day he sends me a text that says “Are you not interested in talking to me?”. What gave it away? Was it the fact that I’m not talking to you?
For any of you that have dabbled in online dating, you already know that trying to find your soul mate on the world wide web is like trying to build a hurricane shelter out of Lego’s.
Times are changing though. More and more people are using the internet to find love, sex, or whatever other kind of top secret, creepy shit they are into. Online dating has great potential to actually become what it already claims to be. But there are still a ton of kinks that need to be worked out.
As I said in part one, Entering the Gates of Freak City, I let my friend, Baker sign me up for one of these sites while I was under the influence of some cheap wine.
Well, the entrance fee to freak city was at the very affordable price of my dignity. SOLD to the lowest bidder! Who needs dignity anyway? It’s like that annoying cricket bitching in my ear, slow down, stop and think, you’re embarrassing yourself. Oh, shut the hell up Jiminy. I got this.
In order to start meeting people in this clown palace, you have to fill out your profile. Baker uploaded my most flattering photo’s and then began to fill out the “About Me” section. This was her opener: “If you like to party, then you will like me!”
She obviously knows way too much of my history to be writing this section. Everyone else had written self praising novels about their lives. I tell her to add that I am a college graduate and have, like, hobbies and stuff. The section ended up being three sentences. Whatever. I’m too drunk to care at this point.
It wasn’t long before all kinds of crazies were messaging me. I won’t bore you with the normal people, because though they are rare, they actually do exist. But I always found a flaw with them. It would be nonsensical for me to date someone who might actually be good for me. Besides, healthy relationships are dull.
This site had a spiffy feature where you can view who added you to their favorites list. And lo and behold! Someone added me as their favorite. Sweet! Lets check this sexy beast out.
Hmmm. It’s a very thin, short, 50-year-old, black man.
And he is wearing a do-rag, taking a “selfie” picture in a broken mirror in what looks to be a shanty town. I shit you not.
My first thought was “how does he afford the membership fees to this site?”
I click to the next picture because let’s be real, he’s got my attention. The second picture is similar to the first except this one has the added bonus of pigeons surrounding him. WTF? It looks like some sort of fucked up family photo. The third picture is just of the pigeons, huddled around shards of glass and cardboard. He can’t be serious. He lives in shanty town with pigeons. PIGEONS! Ya know? Like shitty doves! This might be normal in some parts of the world but this is Florida. I think I’m going to keep my options open and see who else is out there.
I exchanged a few emails with another guy. He seemed normal at first. Until he started asking me why I hadn’t deleted my account yet. I asked him what he meant. He said “It shows that you logged in this morning. Why are you still on that site when you are talking to me? You need to delete it.”
Excuse me? RED FLAG. A couple of conversations and he is already claiming me as his own and forbidding me from talking to any one else. Listen pal, I happen to work as Domestic Violence counselor (shocker, right?) and you clearly have issues. I told him I found someone better looking to talk to. Then he swore at me a few times. Well, that guy is out of the running.
I asked one user if he had a Facebook and if I could add him. He said yes as long as I didn’t mind being bombarded with photos of him and his fiancée.
The next dudes username is BillyBob. I should have known I already had a winner on my hands. But his pictures were cute and he started out nice with the traditional pleasantries. Then things took a turn for the worse. He told me he was an ass man. Uhm, okay, I didn’t ask but thanks for the heads up. Then, he asked me if I had a dirty butt.
Just one of the glories of online dating. Apparently he had some sort of swamp ass fetish. Who knows? I didn’t bother to ask. I just wanted to get me and my clean butt out of that conversation. And that’s probably my cue to depart from Freak City and go back to regular dating. With people who wipe.
The anonymity of the internet can work in disturbing ways. Ugly people pretend to be pretty people. Losers pretend to be cool. And freaks suck you into their freakdom by pretending to be normal.
I can be a real bitch sometimes. But if you’ve read any of my writing then you already knew that. Writing about how I feel in my own personal blog isn’t what makes me a bitch though. I may sound like a bitch or an asshole but it’s not that observable in everyday life. I like to think I have common decency.
But besides that, it got me thinking about the first time I was sincerely told I was acting like an asshole. Believe it or not, it was only about two years ago.
I met a guy through a mutual friend and was instantly attracted to him. Blue eyes, blond hair, nice build –you know the type. We can call him Johnny. Johnny was hot but also unavailable. Fuck. I may be a bitch, but I am not a home wrecker.
After troubling circumstances with a guy I was currently dating, my friends and I went to one of our favorite bars for a girls night out. I have never been a big fan of girls only night, probably because I am a big fan of hot men. But whatever. I have great girlfriends and we already have our buzz on so we arrive at the bar feeling quite chipper.
I’m ordering a drink and who do I run into? That answer is obvious.
Girl time will have to wait.
I’m drunk, newly alone and hungry for male attention. My goal was to find a rebound boy. But Johnny was the last person I expected to see there. I hadn’t seen him in over a year. He approaches me. He tells me how great I look. We talk. He is single now.
According to them, my girlfriends are sitting at the table watching us from across the room. They pretend like my love life is a wildlife mating documentary and begin commenting on our body language and what our next moves will be. The show would be appropriately named Bitch on the Prowl. They predict my signature hair flip. This signifies that I am going in for the kill.
Johnny and I exchange numbers. The bartender is making last call. We realize we are the last ones in the place, my friends are waiting for me in the car. We kiss goodbye. I’m pretty satisfied with myself. I did good.
The next day he calls me and invites me over. I decline. The day after that he calls me and invites me over. I accept.
I get to his house and am blown away by the immaculate and pristine accommodations. I knew he was hot, but dang, he must have money, too. Not to mention, I am greeted by the cutest puppy in the whole world. I think it was an American Bulldog, but I’m not a fucking dog specialist and I already had a few drinks to calm my nerves, so it could have been a miniature pony for all I know.
He asks if I want to go to a local bar and meet up with his friends to play some pool. As I mentioned earlier, I was still hung up on another guy. My sole intention was to use Johnny as a coping mechanism and to forget about my recent failure at love. Looking back, I think I was a tad more drunk than I realized and I slightly regret this decision. Here’s a good-looking guy who wants to take me out and introduce me to his friends, and what do I do? I avoid it at all costs. Go out in public? Meet his friends? I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. I insist that we stay at his house and “watch a movie”. I am destined to die alone.
Then he says he just got home from work and wants to take a quick shower. Good, shower it up. I like a clean man. So, while he is in the bathroom washing his balls, I am sipping a beer and canoodling with the pup on his bed. He comes out of the shower in basketball shorts and lays down next to me. We start flipping through the channels looking for something to watch when we start kissing.
Everything is going great. Foreplay has begun.
I’ll spare you the details. To my surprise a few minutes into it, he finishes. He sighs and grunts his satisfaction. He gets up to go to the bathroom. I ask him through a closed door “is that it?”. No response. For the love of fornication! I still have my pants on!
Moments later he comes back out and lies on the bed next to me. I think he can see the disappointment seeping out my pores. I looked like a fat 8 year-old who just dropped their ice cream cone.
I look at him too, he looks discouraged. I ask him whats wrong. He says and I quote “we took things too fast.” In my mind I’m thinking, no! YOU took things too fast! I did everything right, apparently too right! But instead I blurt out “Why? It’s not like we are going to start dating or anything.” His face went blank, and then quickly transformed into rhino stampeding pissed when he said “that’s the SECOND ASSHOLE THING YOU’VE SAID TONIGHT!” I blushed and gave him a confused face and gently asked “what was the first?”
He stormed into the bathroom again. Maybe I should just haul the mattress in there. Seriously, talk about a role reversal. Some people just don’t understand the concept of reboundism.
I waited a few minutes and then yelled to him “I guess I’ll let myself out!” I think he could hear me arguing with the dog because he came out and was like “you’re leaving?”. As much as I enjoy getting called an asshole and watching you lock yourself in the bathroom, the party has to end some time. “I have to get up for work early tomorrow.”
He opens his front door and the puppy escapes and starts following me. He SCREAMS for the puppy to come back. The puppy does not respond well to commands. Or threats. I am scared for the puppy. I’m standing at my car door and Johnny has to physically come retrieve the puppy to prevent it from jumping into my car.
The night ended in a fashion that I like to call fucking awkward.
Breaking up is super fucking lame but sometimes it is inevitable. I knew the end was coming. I was just getting way too nice, floating up there in happy love land. Earth called, they wanted their bitch back.
You might be thinking I’m going to start rambling about my shattered dreams and how terrible single life is. Not quite. I was bummed out, sure. But bitches always land on their feet.
Plus, wine is like superglue for a broken heart.
I am not single, I am independent. The people with the best success rate of staying together, are people who know how to be alone. Dependency isn’t just a problem for drug addicts.
But that’s enough pep talk.
My best friend thought it would be funny to sign me up for a dating site. I finished off the bottle of wine and agreed.
Honestly, this membership was a one way ticket to freak city. And great ranting material.
This was the first guys selling point: ”I regularly prepare gourmet meals at home, for me and my dogs.” Does that strike anybody else as odd?
First off, ten pictures of you with your dog does not make me believe that you’re a kind, animal loving, trustworthy guy. It makes me believe that you have no friends. And it becomes a serious disadvantage when the dog has better teeth.
Secondly, I like a man who knows how to cook. I do not need a man who knows how to cook. I don’t want your first message to me to read: “I am cooking a really nice chicken, thai, hot, curry, with onions and spices etc,,,”. Do I look hungry? Good for you! Cook it alone, eat it alone. Enjoy your burning hot, curry diarrhea that you will ultimately face in the morning alone too. I’m perfectly happy with my frozen pizza.
More great lines from my potential suitors:
“I enjoy long, romantic walks to the refrigerator.” Was this supposed to be funny? It might have been if you weren’t 200 lbs overweight. And by the way, 200 lbs does not qualify as a “Few extra pounds”.
“Things like a pepsi or a bag of pistachios really make my day.” I, too, enjoy the simple pleasures in life but at some point you have to raise your standards.
“Hey there young lady.” I don’t want to date anybody that calls me young lady. I don’t have daddy issues. My issues lie with you and your 60 year old audacity. “I do have kids, but don’t worry, they are all over 18.” Oh, well that changes everything! I feel so much better knowing that you just have a couple 4o year olds running around.
There was one guy who actually seemed like he might make the cut. Until, I noticed he had really small, feminine hands. I know this may sound crazy on my part, but dating a guy with small hands totally creeps me out. It’s like being felt up by a child. eek!
I am only at the gates of freak city. My exploration into online dating is just beginning. Stay tuned, people. Things are about to get interesting.
We decide to go to the bar for one of my very good friends birthday. There is half empty drinks sitting on the only open table. I walk over to the two guys sitting a few yards away. I ask them if they know if the table is open. They proceed to tell me that they find me attractive.
Well, everyone knows that a good birthday starts with a pregame. So, yes, I was already buzzed prior to our arrival to the bar. One guy is nice, and one is cute. The cute one lives up to the douche stereotype, but I ignore this because I have already consumed alcohol. We flirt and then I leave so my group can stake our claim at the table. We continue drinking.
I meet up with Bar Stud later. He has gotten cuter. We talk for awhile and he asks if I want to see his dog in the truck. No, dog is not code for anything dirty.
We walk outside and there is in fact a dog locked in his truck. I go up to the cracked window and the dog violently growls at me. Chill with the anger, bro.
I ask him what the dogs name is. He says his name is Gangster Baby. That’s not even a real name. That sounds like he just made it up on the spot. He opens the truck door and the dog instantly runs away. Probably because he was named Gangster Baby. What the heck is he going to name his children if Gangster Baby is already taken?
Oh, Hi! Nice to meet you! This is my son, Thug Life, and my daughter, Money Maker.
I shiver, he gives me his jacket.
Thanks to my good friend, beer, we still somehow end up kissing. Then, I spot some of my friends leaving. They see me, and I think oh fuck. I am extremely embarrassed. They pretend not to judge me while telling me my other friends are wondering where I am.
I try to nonchalantly walk in their direction. I trip on my heel and slam to the ground. They continue walking trying to spare me the embarrassment.
Not again! I stand up as fast as I can. I sit on his truck seat examining the bloody damage. Bar Stud is now Bar Dud, and has officially lost all appeal. He is kneeling checking out my bleeding knees. I am busy cursing my entire life’s existence when he asks me if I want him to kiss it to make it feel better. Excuse me? I have a Dad, thank you. And who does he think he is? Edward Cullen? Because I feel like I’m in the Twilight zone. This isn’t happening to me right now. Get the hell away from my blood, fucking freak!
I literally jog back into the bar, still in my heels, telling him I have to go. I feel like a slutty Cinderella.
My other friends that are still in the bar spot me.
“Did you fall?”
“No, I don’t fall. I stumble gracefully.”
“You have blood running down your shin!”
“I need to close my tab.”
I open up Yahoo!’s homepage on Monday morning and “Suri Cruise learns how to ride a bike” is the biggest, boldest news headline I see. First of all, the LAST thing I want to read about when I arrive at work on an early Monday morning is a spoiled, little, rich girl who will probably never have to work a day in her life. My retina’s are burning. Secondly, can someone please tell me how the fuck this is FRONT PAGE NEWS?
Quick, somebody alert the President! A 6 year-old girl is learning how to ride a bike! I’m more surprised they haven’t bought her a hover craft, yet.
If Suri was learning how to ride public transportation, then that might be news. If she was learning how to roll a joint, then that might be news. If she was learning that her father is an overrated wackjob, then she might be catching up with the rest of the world.
Is this really what the general population cares about?
EXTRA! EXTRA! Extra stupid shit in the news today.
… and I will most likely be tuning in, at least to see what it’s all about.
While flipping through the channels I landed on Toddlers and Tiaras. I happened to catch the episode of Honey Boo Boo aka Alana Thompson. Wow. Here is a clip from the show on TLC:
After that show aired she apparently become the talk of the town. And now it landed her a reality spin off series on TLC called Here comes Honey Boo Boo. It starts Aug. 8th at 10 pm.
I need to quit watching trash tv and start watching make up tutorials.
I’ve been battling allergies lately. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any Kleenex at work so being the classy and resourceful bitch that I am I stooped as low as keeping a roll of angel soft toilet paper nearby. I was sick. I was tired. I was pissed I still had 6 hours left at work. Therefore, I did not give a fuck.
One of my jobs is a receptionist at a Marina. My office is connected to the Ship’s store where we sell boat parts as well as a few drinks and snacks for people staying on their boats over night. Much of the time, I am left alone to run the office as well as the store. A guy comes in and gets an ice cream sandwich. He asks for a spoon. Bitch, we are not a fucking Ice Cream Parlor and we’re not spoon suppliers. I tell him I think Ice Cream sandwiches are meant to be eaten with his hands. He says “I ain’t got no teeth.” Ugh. Gag me with a spoon.
If I’m alone in the office and have to relieve myself, I have to lock the front door and walk to the rest rooms. Usually, I try to wait for an associate to come in so I don’t have to do that. Apparently, it’s not good for business to lock the front door during open hours. I think it would be worse for business if I pissed my pants while talking to a tenant. After waiting an hour, I walk out and lock the door, only to be sideswiped by the crypt keeper on a power chair. Seriously? Just because you are old as shit doesn’t mean you can run me over like I don’t matter. Hopefully you don’t scooter your ass right off the dock because I hear diapers are only buoyant until they eventually become waterlogged.
*Ring Ring* “Do you have shark meat there?” “Um, no.” “Do you have alligator meat?” WTF? You’re calling a Marina, not a fucking slaughterhouse.
My job would be great if I didn’t deal with such random weirdo’s on a daily basis. I feel like it is only work because of the exponential amount of effort I spend on resisting the urge to dick slap people.
One of my favorite regulars walks in and asks “What’s the toilet paper for?”
For all the shit I put up with, of course.