A lightbulb that I thought was burned out literally came on over my head this morning.
I had no idea.
But I thought it was funny.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Flabulous Fornicator: Chevy Runs out of Gas.
As the proprietor of the dirty "bodega," read: front for a crystal meth lab, hablad loudly into his phone, I slowly looked from my phone to the pint of ice-cream that was beginning to sweat in my hand, and then back to my phone once more.
The ice-cream I was holding was not so close to Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Pretzel as it was to a slab of under-cooked fried chicken.
What occurred in my (pea-sized) brain at this point is kind of complicated:
1. Part of me wanted to walk in with the generic ice-cream because it would be a funny story to tell later.
2. Part of me wanted to go on a search for the Peanut Butter Pretzel because
a) I looked forward to the challenge of trying to find this brand of ice-cream
b) It meant that I would be even MORE late than I already was which would make me look like I was too busy to get to his place on time and
c) When he asked me what took so long, I could think to myself "I was finding you the ice-cream you wanted to make you happy," but not actually tell him that, (which would be a lie anyway)...so that I would, in effect, be kind of (and here's where it gets twisted) a martyr...TO MYSELF. I know. Sick.
And part of me wanted to burst into tears and run home and call my ex-boyfriend whose favorite flavor was Cherry Garcia which is carried in every fucking bodega in New York City.
I chose option 2 because looking like a hero and being a martyr sounded like appropriate behavior for a third "date."
I was, however, faced with a few dilemmas:
1) There really wasn't another bodega within five blocks
2) Which would mean I'd be required to back-track and pass by my group of friends again which wouldn't have been such a big deal if
3) I hadn't shot my mouth off to my group of friends about how annoying it was that i was asked to get ice-cream for this guy who isn't even close to being my boyfriend, and then proceeded to cavalierly pronounce that I was going to get him a pudding pop.
So i did what any normal person would do. I went around the block the long way to avoid the awkwardness that running into the sages would incur.
This is not just a block, mind you. This is a long stretch of road. After about 10 minutes of walking i finally found a bodega that looked like it wasn't actually a front for the illegal trafficking of body parts.
I rummaged through the ice cream case to find Peanut Butter Pretzel. It, of course was nowhere to be found.
"Is peanut butter cup ok?" I texted.
"I guess. I've never had it." He replied.
WHO has never had peanut butter cup ice cream? Baby killers, maybe.
Exasperated, I pulled out the next pint of ice cream I saw.
"How about American Dream ice cream?"
"Oooh! is that the one by Steven Colbert?" He had the nerve to text.
I, at this point can't believe I'm having this conversation, even though I was the dumb one who was giving him a choice.
I ended up getting fucking American Dream ice-cream because he was so enthusiastic about the fact that an actor from a Comedy Central show endorsed it.
As i walked back up the street triumphantly clutching the pint of ice cream, who would i HAVE to run into, but one of the sages. How was i to know that these girls would be done drinking so quickly?
"Did you just walk all the way back here to get ice-cream?" she inquired incredulously.
Lie, I thought.
"Yes." I hung my head.
"Seriously?!" She inquired more incredulously.
Lie, I thought.
"Yes." I stared at my shoes and blinked twice.
"Girl, he better go down on you for hours."
Lie, and pretend that you would actually like that, I thought.
"I know, right?!" I exclaimed.
With that verbal high five, we went our separate ways.
I arrived at Chevy's apartment about an hour after I said I was going to. The only indication that he noticed was the fact that the wine had already been opened.
I proudly presented the ice-cream that he wanted, and waited for the accolades.
"Thanks," he said, and tossed it into the freezer. My heroic act was not at all acknowledged. This made me want to tell him all I had been through for him, but then I would no longer be a martyr, I would just be a complainer.
As i settled into his broken armchair from 1933 (he doesn't actually have a couch), he handed me a glass of wine an pulled up his desk chair to sit next to me. He offered me a selection of DVDs to watch, and after a bit of passive aggressive debate we settled on The office, Season 4 even though he definitely wanted to watch 'Son of Rambow,' which, let's be honest, I'm not going to watch, because, well, it's foreign.
Just as the opening credits ended and the first scene began, Chevy turns to me and asks,
"So what, are you lactose intolerant?"
"Excuse me?" I was startled.
"Well, you don't eat ice-cream."
"I never said I don't eat ice-cream. I just didn't want any.'
"Oh. Wanna smoke pot?"
So we smoked.* And we smoked. And everything started to get funnier.
Some notable funny moments:
1) The armchair repeatedly lost it's stick, effectively throwing me backward on to the floor, which although quite painful, would probably be hilarious to watch. Particularly since it happened every 15 minutes.
2) He asked me what Imodium was exactly, and he actually said the word "gas" (which I hate) out loud. But I explained and was actually thankful that he had switched his object of drunken conversation from gay people to bodily functions.
However, my humor was lost after he polished off the entire pint of ice-cream on his own, and then ate an entire bag of potato chips.
Because it was then that I realized I was about to sleep with a slightly less hot and hairier version of this guy.
Luckily for me, we both passed out before anything gross could happen. Well, that is until the next morning.
Sick.
The ice-cream I was holding was not so close to Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Pretzel as it was to a slab of under-cooked fried chicken.
What occurred in my (pea-sized) brain at this point is kind of complicated:
1. Part of me wanted to walk in with the generic ice-cream because it would be a funny story to tell later.
2. Part of me wanted to go on a search for the Peanut Butter Pretzel because
a) I looked forward to the challenge of trying to find this brand of ice-cream
b) It meant that I would be even MORE late than I already was which would make me look like I was too busy to get to his place on time and
c) When he asked me what took so long, I could think to myself "I was finding you the ice-cream you wanted to make you happy," but not actually tell him that, (which would be a lie anyway)...so that I would, in effect, be kind of (and here's where it gets twisted) a martyr...TO MYSELF. I know. Sick.
And part of me wanted to burst into tears and run home and call my ex-boyfriend whose favorite flavor was Cherry Garcia which is carried in every fucking bodega in New York City.
I chose option 2 because looking like a hero and being a martyr sounded like appropriate behavior for a third "date."
I was, however, faced with a few dilemmas:
1) There really wasn't another bodega within five blocks
2) Which would mean I'd be required to back-track and pass by my group of friends again which wouldn't have been such a big deal if
3) I hadn't shot my mouth off to my group of friends about how annoying it was that i was asked to get ice-cream for this guy who isn't even close to being my boyfriend, and then proceeded to cavalierly pronounce that I was going to get him a pudding pop.
So i did what any normal person would do. I went around the block the long way to avoid the awkwardness that running into the sages would incur.
This is not just a block, mind you. This is a long stretch of road. After about 10 minutes of walking i finally found a bodega that looked like it wasn't actually a front for the illegal trafficking of body parts.
I rummaged through the ice cream case to find Peanut Butter Pretzel. It, of course was nowhere to be found.
"Is peanut butter cup ok?" I texted.
"I guess. I've never had it." He replied.
WHO has never had peanut butter cup ice cream? Baby killers, maybe.
Exasperated, I pulled out the next pint of ice cream I saw.
"How about American Dream ice cream?"
"Oooh! is that the one by Steven Colbert?" He had the nerve to text.
I, at this point can't believe I'm having this conversation, even though I was the dumb one who was giving him a choice.
I ended up getting fucking American Dream ice-cream because he was so enthusiastic about the fact that an actor from a Comedy Central show endorsed it.
As i walked back up the street triumphantly clutching the pint of ice cream, who would i HAVE to run into, but one of the sages. How was i to know that these girls would be done drinking so quickly?
"Did you just walk all the way back here to get ice-cream?" she inquired incredulously.
Lie, I thought.
"Yes." I hung my head.
"Seriously?!" She inquired more incredulously.
Lie, I thought.
"Yes." I stared at my shoes and blinked twice.
"Girl, he better go down on you for hours."
Lie, and pretend that you would actually like that, I thought.
"I know, right?!" I exclaimed.
With that verbal high five, we went our separate ways.
I arrived at Chevy's apartment about an hour after I said I was going to. The only indication that he noticed was the fact that the wine had already been opened.
I proudly presented the ice-cream that he wanted, and waited for the accolades.
"Thanks," he said, and tossed it into the freezer. My heroic act was not at all acknowledged. This made me want to tell him all I had been through for him, but then I would no longer be a martyr, I would just be a complainer.
As i settled into his broken armchair from 1933 (he doesn't actually have a couch), he handed me a glass of wine an pulled up his desk chair to sit next to me. He offered me a selection of DVDs to watch, and after a bit of passive aggressive debate we settled on The office, Season 4 even though he definitely wanted to watch 'Son of Rambow,' which, let's be honest, I'm not going to watch, because, well, it's foreign.
Just as the opening credits ended and the first scene began, Chevy turns to me and asks,
"So what, are you lactose intolerant?"
"Excuse me?" I was startled.
"Well, you don't eat ice-cream."
"I never said I don't eat ice-cream. I just didn't want any.'
"Oh. Wanna smoke pot?"
So we smoked.* And we smoked. And everything started to get funnier.
Some notable funny moments:
1) The armchair repeatedly lost it's stick, effectively throwing me backward on to the floor, which although quite painful, would probably be hilarious to watch. Particularly since it happened every 15 minutes.
2) He asked me what Imodium was exactly, and he actually said the word "gas" (which I hate) out loud. But I explained and was actually thankful that he had switched his object of drunken conversation from gay people to bodily functions.
However, my humor was lost after he polished off the entire pint of ice-cream on his own, and then ate an entire bag of potato chips.
Because it was then that I realized I was about to sleep with a slightly less hot and hairier version of this guy.
Luckily for me, we both passed out before anything gross could happen. Well, that is until the next morning.
Sick.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Used Car Lot and the Flab-ulous Fornicator
Ever since I stopped feeling feelings and became totally dead inside thanks to my eager willingness in my early 20's to get worked like Jane Fonda's thighs by older, uglier, less intelligent men, I've viewed my dating "pool" (read: puddle), like a used car lot.
I'm really not looking to buy…mainly because I can’t afford the insurance, but I'll test drive a few so I don’t forget how to drive stick.
Besides, even if the paint job is scratched up and faded, it might have a great engine.
Or it will always smell like gas.
Either way, I’ve been forcing myself to at LEAST take a spin around the block.
There is nothing like a sophomore metaphor to kick off a tale starring a pale skinny-fat 36-year old man, and, of course, yours truly.
For the last several years I've been half-heartedly seeing guys, sort of clinging on to a past relationship that was actually only recently completely severed...and by severed I mean the band-aid that you have been slowly ripping off for five years finally loses it's sticky and falls off in the dirty wave pool at the water park…and unfortunately floats smack onto a dirty slut-whore.
This decapitation occurred during a time when I was sort of hanging out with this guy, we'll call him "Chevy" because Chevy's are semi-unattractive cars, but generally pretty safe.
Chevy is very nice, however Chevy possesses many qualities that I find extremely unattractive:
1) His skin is milky white
2) He has a high-pitched laugh.
3) The way he parts his hair causes a perfectly formed wave on the side of his head.
4) He is from the West Coast.
5) When he drinks, he talks about gay people a lot. This is accompanied by his unfortunate lispy West Coast accent.
6) Yes, I am a tad racist* against West Coast folk. I think they are an odd people.
7) He is skinny, but he has a gut, forming what I can only describe as sort of a pooch. A man-pooch. A mooch!
8) He doesn't really have anything that interesting to say, mainly because he's usually smoking pot or talking about gay people because he is always drunk.
I realize I am being very hard on the guy, but before you pass judgment, let's go to the tape.
Chevy invited me over to his apartment last night to drink wine and watch a DVD.
I should back up.
Chevy invited me to dinner last night to make up for the night before when, after begging me to come over at 1:30am (after I had been traveling from the west coast the entire day) he passed out in his chair, and left me standing outside of his apartment ringing his buzzer over and over again. And calling his cell-phone. And leaving threatening messages. Like, “Chevy, if you don’t pick up the phone, I'm going to burn your house down.”
He didn’t pick up and I decided to never speak to him again.
I changed my mind after receiving multiple groveling messages.
I don’t mind a man who begs.
I declined dinner because I’d rather shit than eat in front of people I don’t know that well. I decided to accept his second offer go to his house to drink wine and watch DVDs because I needed to get laid and I really didn't care by whom.
On my way to his house, the following texting exchange ensued:
Chevy: Can u pick up some ice-cream maybe? I have wine.
Me: Ok. What kind do you want? (Thinking: Do you want me to pick up your laundry too?)
Chevy: I’m easy. Something ben and jerrys but no cherry Garcia. I hate hippies. Whatever u like!
Me: I’m not going to have any. What kind do you want?
Chevy: u don’t like ice cream!?? Surprise me. Oo much pressure!
Me: no response.
I will touch upon the “u don’t like ice-cream?” in part II of this post.
En route to his apartment, I ran into three friends of mine who were having a drink outside at a bar near his house. We had a nice chat and I explained to them that I was picking up ice cream before I went to a boy’s house to drink wine and watch a DVD. One of the three sages informed me that there really wasn’t a place around to get ice cream.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
Rummaging through the dirty bin at the dirty bodega across the street from his house, I did find some generic brand peanut butter and chocolate ice cream that wasn’t encrusted in freezer goo and texted Chevy to ask him if he liked chocolate and peanut butter (cause, you know, some people are deathly allergic to chocolate and/or peanut butter and I thought it might be unfortunate if he died because of me) which prompted him to text:
Chevy: Is it peanut butter pretzel? I love that!
I sighed. There wasn’t any other bodega in sight.
Stay tuned for Part II: "The Flab-ulous FornicatorWhat is Imodium Exactly?"
*I am also slightly racist against redheads.
I'm really not looking to buy…mainly because I can’t afford the insurance, but I'll test drive a few so I don’t forget how to drive stick.
Besides, even if the paint job is scratched up and faded, it might have a great engine.
Or it will always smell like gas.
Either way, I’ve been forcing myself to at LEAST take a spin around the block.
There is nothing like a sophomore metaphor to kick off a tale starring a pale skinny-fat 36-year old man, and, of course, yours truly.
For the last several years I've been half-heartedly seeing guys, sort of clinging on to a past relationship that was actually only recently completely severed...and by severed I mean the band-aid that you have been slowly ripping off for five years finally loses it's sticky and falls off in the dirty wave pool at the water park…and unfortunately floats smack onto a dirty slut-whore.
This decapitation occurred during a time when I was sort of hanging out with this guy, we'll call him "Chevy" because Chevy's are semi-unattractive cars, but generally pretty safe.
Chevy is very nice, however Chevy possesses many qualities that I find extremely unattractive:
1) His skin is milky white
2) He has a high-pitched laugh.
3) The way he parts his hair causes a perfectly formed wave on the side of his head.
4) He is from the West Coast.
5) When he drinks, he talks about gay people a lot. This is accompanied by his unfortunate lispy West Coast accent.
6) Yes, I am a tad racist* against West Coast folk. I think they are an odd people.
7) He is skinny, but he has a gut, forming what I can only describe as sort of a pooch. A man-pooch. A mooch!
8) He doesn't really have anything that interesting to say, mainly because he's usually smoking pot or talking about gay people because he is always drunk.
I realize I am being very hard on the guy, but before you pass judgment, let's go to the tape.
Chevy invited me over to his apartment last night to drink wine and watch a DVD.
I should back up.
Chevy invited me to dinner last night to make up for the night before when, after begging me to come over at 1:30am (after I had been traveling from the west coast the entire day) he passed out in his chair, and left me standing outside of his apartment ringing his buzzer over and over again. And calling his cell-phone. And leaving threatening messages. Like, “Chevy, if you don’t pick up the phone, I'm going to burn your house down.”
He didn’t pick up and I decided to never speak to him again.
I changed my mind after receiving multiple groveling messages.
I don’t mind a man who begs.
I declined dinner because I’d rather shit than eat in front of people I don’t know that well. I decided to accept his second offer go to his house to drink wine and watch DVDs because I needed to get laid and I really didn't care by whom.
On my way to his house, the following texting exchange ensued:
Chevy: Can u pick up some ice-cream maybe? I have wine.
Me: Ok. What kind do you want? (Thinking: Do you want me to pick up your laundry too?)
Chevy: I’m easy. Something ben and jerrys but no cherry Garcia. I hate hippies. Whatever u like!
Me: I’m not going to have any. What kind do you want?
Chevy: u don’t like ice cream!?? Surprise me. Oo much pressure!
Me: no response.
I will touch upon the “u don’t like ice-cream?” in part II of this post.
En route to his apartment, I ran into three friends of mine who were having a drink outside at a bar near his house. We had a nice chat and I explained to them that I was picking up ice cream before I went to a boy’s house to drink wine and watch a DVD. One of the three sages informed me that there really wasn’t a place around to get ice cream.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
Rummaging through the dirty bin at the dirty bodega across the street from his house, I did find some generic brand peanut butter and chocolate ice cream that wasn’t encrusted in freezer goo and texted Chevy to ask him if he liked chocolate and peanut butter (cause, you know, some people are deathly allergic to chocolate and/or peanut butter and I thought it might be unfortunate if he died because of me) which prompted him to text:
Chevy: Is it peanut butter pretzel? I love that!
I sighed. There wasn’t any other bodega in sight.
Stay tuned for Part II: "The Flab-ulous FornicatorWhat is Imodium Exactly?"
*I am also slightly racist against redheads.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Hey Xmastime! Remember This?
TOP TEN ways someone breaks up with you and the translation of what each phrase means. If you have any to add, please feel free...I'd love to get to 100...this is going to go in the Anthology I'm putting together called: "Piecing together the tattered remains of my pride and my unflagging pursuit of complete self-distruction" #10: "Lets take a break." Translation: "I've found someone else to do, but I still might want to do you so I don't want to completely lose you as an option."
#9: “I don’t wanna risk losing our friendship that means so much to me.” Translation: “Im not sexually attracted to you, but I still want you there if it’s a Friday night and nobody else has asked me out. Also, I’ll need someone from the opposite sex to whine to when blows me off”
#8: “It’s not you, it’s me.” Translation: “WOW, is it you. I’m desperately trying to shovel in my whole double quarter-pounder so I can sprint out of here and begin my post-you life.”
#7: "I'm not good enough for you." Translation: "You are a loser. I'm going off to find someone with a job and health insurance."
#6: (a classic if there ever was one) “I love you, but I’m not IN love with you.” Translation: “How long after this awkward talk does society insist I wait before I can fuck all of your friends?”
#5: "I need to concentrate on my career and am afraid I might neglect you." Translation: "I found someone else to do and I really don’t think I’ll want to do you again.”
#4: "I want to learn to grow, to find new and different experiences." Translation: "I’m an idiot, and I’m still looking for a man who is so perfect he ejaculates chocolate. In the meantime, I will settle for fucking the rugby team."
#3: "I have Ebola.” Translation: "I'm dumping you!"
#2: “I think we might be moving in different directions.” Translation: “I got into college!!! Have fun working with your dad at Safeway, you fucking hick!!”
#1 "I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you and that scares me." Translation: I am not in love with you at all, I am just too much of a pussy to tell you the truth which is, you are kind of ugly, a little fat, I really only had the intention of doing you once, but got sucked in because you paid for everything, and my girlfriend was off at college. She's back now. We do it all the time…please stop calling me.
#9: “I don’t wanna risk losing our friendship that means so much to me.” Translation: “Im not sexually attracted to you, but I still want you there if it’s a Friday night and nobody else has asked me out. Also, I’ll need someone from the opposite sex to whine to when blows me off”
#8: “It’s not you, it’s me.” Translation: “WOW, is it you. I’m desperately trying to shovel in my whole double quarter-pounder so I can sprint out of here and begin my post-you life.”
#7: "I'm not good enough for you." Translation: "You are a loser. I'm going off to find someone with a job and health insurance."
#6: (a classic if there ever was one) “I love you, but I’m not IN love with you.” Translation: “How long after this awkward talk does society insist I wait before I can fuck all of your friends?”
#5: "I need to concentrate on my career and am afraid I might neglect you." Translation: "I found someone else to do and I really don’t think I’ll want to do you again.”
#4: "I want to learn to grow, to find new and different experiences." Translation: "I’m an idiot, and I’m still looking for a man who is so perfect he ejaculates chocolate. In the meantime, I will settle for fucking the rugby team."
#3: "I have Ebola.” Translation: "I'm dumping you!"
#2: “I think we might be moving in different directions.” Translation: “I got into college!!! Have fun working with your dad at Safeway, you fucking hick!!”
#1 "I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you and that scares me." Translation: I am not in love with you at all, I am just too much of a pussy to tell you the truth which is, you are kind of ugly, a little fat, I really only had the intention of doing you once, but got sucked in because you paid for everything, and my girlfriend was off at college. She's back now. We do it all the time…please stop calling me.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
'She's Crazy"
I recently went on a date with a guy who repeatedly referred to his ex-girlfriend as crazy.
1) This guy was seriously cheap. For our second date he suggested, and I quote, "Why don't you come over and we'll drink PBRs in my back yard (on the upper east side) so we can save money." I laughed out loud.
2) His nose was seriously pert.
If I had a nickle for every time I heard "I don't know, she's crazy" in response to the question "Why did you break up with her?" I'd melt all 5 gazillion of the nickles together to form one enormous coin and shove it up the ass of the next Fucklehead that utters that phrase in my prescence.
Apparent reasons why Cheapo's ex was crazy:
1) She was upset when he flirted with other girls, DESPITE the fact that he told her that he couldn't help who he was.
2) She farted on him in bed one time...ON PURPOSE! And then laughed about it.
Yes, those were the two reasons he gave me for her being crazy. After a quiet pause, I calmly asked him,
"Did she ever piss in your bed, break $10,000 worth of your computer equipment, or put your house up for sale on Craig's List? Because these are things that I have done to my exes...for starters."
Oddly, I never heard from him after our second date which took place at the ever glamorous "Cheap Shots."
"She's crazy." Yeah, I'd be crazy too if I had to look at that stupid little nose all day.
Sigh.
1) This guy was seriously cheap. For our second date he suggested, and I quote, "Why don't you come over and we'll drink PBRs in my back yard (on the upper east side) so we can save money." I laughed out loud.
2) His nose was seriously pert.
If I had a nickle for every time I heard "I don't know, she's crazy" in response to the question "Why did you break up with her?" I'd melt all 5 gazillion of the nickles together to form one enormous coin and shove it up the ass of the next Fucklehead that utters that phrase in my prescence.
Apparent reasons why Cheapo's ex was crazy:
1) She was upset when he flirted with other girls, DESPITE the fact that he told her that he couldn't help who he was.
2) She farted on him in bed one time...ON PURPOSE! And then laughed about it.
Yes, those were the two reasons he gave me for her being crazy. After a quiet pause, I calmly asked him,
"Did she ever piss in your bed, break $10,000 worth of your computer equipment, or put your house up for sale on Craig's List? Because these are things that I have done to my exes...for starters."
Oddly, I never heard from him after our second date which took place at the ever glamorous "Cheap Shots."
"She's crazy." Yeah, I'd be crazy too if I had to look at that stupid little nose all day.
Sigh.
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