So through circumstances completely unrelated to matters of the heart, I am once again residing in the solitary. No need to get into the why and how. Just know I’ve spent the better part of this fall pretending to prepare for a Telenovela audition. Spoiler alert: I’m still white.
For those of you unfamiliar with Single Lena, I am taking this blog post as opportunity to fill you in on the raw essence of lovely you will begin to come in contact with on the regular. When I lived with another, I went to bed at normal hours, always brushed my teeth, and occasionally took out the garbage. Now that I live alone, I have uninterrupted conversations with myself about the origins of the term “whoopsie daisy,” occasionally wear pajamas that resemble nudity, and learned to pee standing up. Only one of these things is a lie.
While in some ways my existence is improving, having attempted to make homemade cheerios and once again taken up the hobby of photographing my own breasts (only both of these things are true)…
I am still struggling with the acceptance of my unromantic status, as proven by the 53 episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond I’ve watched in the last week. But nevertheless, life is going on as if Breaking Bad and my relationship had never ended. I am back to my old unsettling ways and have already gone through a book of stamps, for all the letters I’ve been writing to prisoners. So I think I’m doing ok.
The girl whose probably under the influence of something special .
Organic pear and meth amphetamine…GRANOLA.
By now I think it is clear that I am not doing a post-a-day October. I lied to you all. I didn’t even try.
This very fact, coupled with the rest of my life, has reminded me that I am sort of an asshole. I am not saying this to be adorable or self deprecating, like when I talk about how fat I am or my confusion about how anyone can love me. I’m being straight with you. Like Anderson Cooper. Until he wasn’t.
See, I have been struggling with my asshole tendencies for years. When I was in 4thgrade my family relocated to a new school. As I hugged my old friends goodbye, taking pictures on a disposable camera I would never develop, they gave me their phone numbers and cried and asked that we keep in touch, to which I enthusiastically agreed. But as we embraced, the thought quite distinctly crossed my mind, “I will never talk to you again. Have a nice life. I want my troll ring back.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I have made strides to cushion my assholeness. I have mastered the great first impression; smiling a lot, listening well, wearing clothing that deemphasizes my love handles. But therein lies the problem! I may seem like your regular socially gifted, well-endowed, appropriately humored (sometimes), master of all would-be awkward things were I not so fantastic at being alive, but in reality I am a socially-awkward fat kid, disguising my flaws as endearing qualities in order to make people like me, until I am certain they do and can officially stop talking to them. Again, not being self-deprecating. Just keeping it real. Like JLo. Until she wasn’t.
But it seems the older I get, the bigger asshole I become. For example. One day about 9 months ago I logged into Facebook to find that 10-15 people were celebrating their birthdays. Ridiculous. After mulling over each person’s name and determining that I just don’t care enough, I proceeded to incinerate that mental note with my red hot laziness and go back to cyber stalking the elementary school classmates I never put the effort into speaking to again. This was almost a year ago, but has now become a habit. A bad habit. Now I don’t even say Happy Birthday to people I actually want to say Happy Birthday to. It’s like, I’m afraid if I do, people will know I am capable of doing it and will therefore take it personally when I ultimately determine that they are not worth the time. So I instead choose to ignore everyone so no one can take it personally, but everyone can think I’m an asshole.
I wish this was only limited to empty Facebook interactions, but it’s not. I don’t email people back. I ignore text messages, tweets, voicemails, BLOG COMMENTS. I don’t deserve the attention. I don’t deserve the affection or the friendship. But I will continue to take it until you stop wanting to give it. Then I will ninja my way back into your life and make you love me, or miss me, or need me in some way, before vanishing once again into the abyss of social networking that ironically decreases my ability to be social or network.
So I just wanted to write this blog entry so every one of my blog readers, Facebook stalkers, and disappointed relatives can have some form of validation from me and know that despite my actions, I DO care about you. I DO appreciate when you take the time to contact me. My actions may not prove it, but my words verify it. And we all know that shit’s real.
The girl who calls her boyfriend “button”
The last time I blogged about my future ex-husband, I was still not entirely free from my first ex-husband. But now that I am 9 months legally divorced and sober from marital strife, I’ve decided it is nothing short of necessary to write another personal ad to the world revealing my deepest innermost desires for love, happiness, and someone to clean up after me when I miss the toilet bowl.
Moments like this remind me of why I am single.
To further narrow the plethora of romantic options that bombard me on a daily basis (ha!) I am going to follow up on the original six characteristics of my future ex-husband. Let’s do this.
My future ex-husband will undoubtedly wear cologne. But not just any cologne. Grade A douchebag cologne. Cologne sold at Hollister, Express, and Rite Aid discount bins. Cologne that conveys an overwhelming attraction to Natural Light and girls with butterfly tramp stamps.
I wish this wasn’t true. But I can’t deny the fact, that every time a guy with pierced ears and a backwards Yankees baseball cap passes me on the street and I get a whiff of the sweet scent of bottled stupidity he bathed in earlier that morning, I shudder with physical excitement.
2. Plays a
musical instrument guitar
I’d like to say I am open-minded to whatever kind of instrument he plays, but I’m really not. I’m not going to accept some mediocre Billy Joel-esque piano rendition of “Blowin in the Wind” when he is fulfilling his hourly requirement of serenading to me. It’s either guitar or one of the pre-approved string instruments I wet dream about.
*I will also accept a man with harmonica playing skills for reasons that have nothing to do with music.
3. A Fan of NATURAL blondes
There is a rumor circulating through the public restrooms of America that men prefer to call blondes for a good time, than women of any other hair color. However in my experience, almost every man I have ever made acquaintance with has openly told me he prefers brunettes. Even my aforementioned ex-husband mentioned in our pre-marital counseling that his only qualms with my looks involve my Nazi hair color. He wasn’t even Jewish!
So, enough of that b***shit. If my future ex-husband is going to love my hair. He is going to worship it with passion formerly reserved for all of the hobbies I force him to give up.
4. Says no to trendy word choices
“My mancave is like, so random. But it’s soooooo awkward when my bros stop by. EPIC FAIL.”
My future ex-husband will never say this sentence. Or the word “chillax.”
iHate iPhones and iHate anyone who disagrees on the matter. The only benefit of owning an iPhone is that it gives you some way to entertain yourself while your iPhone lacking peers mock your inability to participate in a conversation without Googling every topic mentioned.
My future ex husband will not own an iPhone and will instead have the ability to communicate like a real live boy, spending his youth doing something
more productive than playing “Draw Something”. Like watching “Rupal’s Drag Race.”
6. Intellectual Capabilities that Far Exceed Mine
This one will be difficult as it is has been a good 6 months since I’ve met a man who could spell the word calendar without spellcheck. Nevertheless I have faith that my future ex-husband will be such a rare form of genius, he will feel the overwhelming need to remind me of my intellectual failures on a daily basis, from my inability to recite multiples of ten to ignorance of economic policy. After all,if I’m not constantly made to feel inadequate, it’s not a real relationship.
This is good. The last time I wrote a blog like this, I had a difficult time imagining divorcing the man I described. But this time I’m looking forward to freshening up on Pennsylvania divorce laws.
I hope you enjoyed your venture into my neurosis and always remember: “A woman with no standards, can never get disappointed.”
The girl who wishes she read that in a Chinese fortune cookie, instead of having to claim it as her own
Forty-two days ago I wrote a blog entry about being at the cusp of a new and healthy relationship.. It was basically my opportunity to tell the world, “Yes, I am capable of dating someone who does not shit the bed OR have stories about the time they underwent 72 hours of psychiatric evaluation.” It was like a breath of fresh air after two years in a closet with Carrot Top. I have a feeling he smells bad. I have no factual evidence to back this up.
Well, needless to say, that relationship dropped dead about a month ago and I haven’t gotten around to blogging about it. Not necessarily out of depression because it was a mutual decision, but because it seems like a weird thing to blog about. You know, like talking about my huge boobs or how I pee when I sneeze. Oh, wait…
We haven’t spoken at all since I ended it via text message (I should be shot). The thing is, Gerard (pseudonym) was a grand chap. We had a lot of fun together but unfortunately too little in common and too far of a distance to sustain. I think and hope we both agree on this.
So now I’ve been single for about a month. Unfortunately within that month my market value has depreciated. Though my body has begrudgingly surrendered five pounds to my slightly healthier eating habits, my overall body-bettering efforts have been lost.
I got a bug bite on my right boob.
At least I think it was a bug bite.
It was red, swollen, and looked like it may have been filled with pre-historic DNA. If that’s not a bug bite, I don’t know what is.
So naturally I assaulted it. I started to pinch it and squeeze it and treat it like a third nipple. But then it started bleeding so I put alcohol on it (terrible idea). Then it turned a weird white color. Then a few days later it was all red with a tiny scab on it. Now it looks like my gingerbread man mosquito bite scar from last summer which is only cute when it is not on my right boob.
So basically I am single with a mangled breast which isn’t even a secret anymore because I’m posting it on my blog which happens to have an international audience, with highly judgmental feelings about breasts. And as an added bonus, I am apparently a bitch, as this conversation just went down on Facebook:
So who wants to be my friend???? Let me know so I can start devaluing your existence ASAP.
The girl who has spent her morning singing a country rendition of “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry
My mother has an unemployed, black male living in her house.
I know what you’re thinking. Why you gotta pull the race card into it, bitch? Because she does. All the time. Every time she talks about finding a new one she specifies that he will have to be 100% black. None of the half and half shit.
Honestly, the black part really doesn’t bother me. Live and let live, right? Plus he can be sort of cute when he wants to be.
But what makes me want to drop kick him out the door is his unfounded sense of entitlement. I try to tell her that it’s unhealthy to let him run her life and interfere in our family, but she tells me that he really loves her and tells him not to listen to me. It’s a vicious cycle that’s been going on for far too long.
I don’t know if she was feeling lonely or what, but four years ago she got “online.” She started browsing ads with pictures and descriptions, all looking for their “best friend” promising to be “fun “and “loving.” All the standard lines.
Then she saw him. To quote her, “I saw that black face and I just fell in love.”
A few weeks later he moved in. A few days after that and he was already sleeping in her bed. Now, I’m not saying my mom is easy or anything but… I was living there at the time and I can tell you with 100% certainty, it didn’t take that much convincing.
It was okay at first. He was friendly enough and kind of fun to hang out with. My brother wasn’t too big on the whole thing though. Overtime we all came to accept the fact that things were going to be different.
But after a few months of him lounging around the house, sleeping full days while my mom worked, then demanding meals when she got home, it became quite obvious that this had transformed into a highly abusive relationship.
She stopped going out on evenings and weekends always saying she “felt bad” about leaving him. I kept telling her that he was a big boy and he could survive without her for a while, but she’d just shake her head and tell me I didn’t understand. It wasn’t that easy.
Overtime he convinced her that he was really lonely during the days, crying and throwing fits. Instead of kicking his ass out, she invited his little sister to come live with us too. His little sister is not much younger than him, same dad different mom. She’s only half black, but twice as loud.
Now here we are, four years later, with things getting worse by the day. He’s still not working, still demanding all of her attention, and still only willing to eat organic food served at very specific temperatures. But that’s hardly the worst part.
He’s sleeping with me now too.
Oh the charms of a 15 pounds shih tzu…
The girl with youngest child syndrome
I’m weirdly arrogant. You might assume with all of my self-deprecating hate speak I am a licensed wrist cutter, but no. I actually suffer from crippling arrogance. I might be upset about it if I wasn’t so busy blogging about it. Thank God for the Internet. And Bill Nye. That’s unrelated.
Anyway, here are a few things I brag about, that no one should brag about.
My weird relationship with body hair.
I have a weird relationship with body hair. People don’t get it. I don’t get it.
It’s like, I want to find it disgusting, but I can’t. Like how I feel about Russel Brand or used Q-tips. Unhygienic and riddled with bodily fluids, I’d still let them penetrate my ears. The Q-tips, not Russel Brand. Katy Perry sucks.
But, it’s hard to explain my attraction to body hair.
On the body…
When I think of guys with body hair I think of two things:
1. Shaving the Superman logo onto his chest and
2. That in the right lighting, I would probably have sex with an orangutan.
Instead of acknowledging this as a fetish with a 1987 expiration date, I brag about it. People just don’t get it the way I do. Which leaves me no other option but to belittle those who disagree with me, accusing the women of being lesbians, and the men of being mid-transition transsexuals. Like Khloe Kardashian.
Jk, Khlo! *Kisses*
How Infrequently I Urinate
I was born with a massive bladder. At least that’s what I tell people. While this sort of statement may not impress in the same way as, say a vestigial tail or second vagina, I still find the words “internal fanny pack” escaping my lips whenever I participate in long road trips or conversations involving Chuck Norris.
Such an asset leads to an excess of useless conversation. At least once every 72 hours, I say one of the following things:
- I’ve only peed once since Thursday.
- Wow, I haven’t peed since 6:00 am.
- Some people really pee a lot. I don’t pee a lot.
- Use the bathroom? Girl, please.
- You can get pregnant from that?!
Eh hem, yeah. You can.
Reasons I Have Ended Relationships
Much like an early 20th century Appalachian family, every time mine convenes we spend our time entertaining one another with folk tales of the crazy ass bitches we recently dumped. Since I’m like, so totally unhinged, I tend to lead these conversations.
I like to open with my story of Bernard, the Waffle House casa nova, follow up with Jehovah the 5’6 cuddle monster, and close with Pedro, the divorced –er, I mean separated, whoops – I mean separated but still living together, yikes – I mean married with an open relationship, damn –I mean married and talking kids, dude I briefly considered.
I pantomime this humiliation, the crowds go wild, and I am left feeling proud and in serious denial of how pathetic my life has truly been.
Man alive, I’m on top of the world. I better do something to knock myself off of this high horse.
Oh, wait. I woke up today. Done.
The girl with hips that lie
Relationships are tough. If they weren’t, there would be a lot less Broken Condom Baby Traps (BCBT) plotted each year.
I don’t know what that is.
I’ve had my share of fecal abundant relationships in recent years, many of which I have spouted off about in this very blog. Evidently, accusations of slander and threats to my personhood mean nothing to me because I am about to do it again. For those of you who do not spend your free time in the tree outside my window, I will give you a little back story on my current “involvement,” (thanks MS Word thesaurus! ;))
In mid-January, I found myself lonely and searching for love, just as I have the last 23 years of my life. Late night webcam conversations with hot foreign dudes and slightly homosexual thoughts about Amanda Seyfried ceased to keep me warm at night, so I decided to try “dating” again. I met the gentleman in question, we’ll call him Walter Von Trapp…
Gerard. There we go.
I met Gerard in mid-January. We had a very nice first date of sushi and abundant conversation. I was pleased to learn that like myself, he too talks during movies so much it made the black people behind us look shy. I was diggin’ it. But then 3-4 (who’s counting) weeks passed and I, being my neurotic, emotionally retarded self, avoided any face to face interaction with my potential boo (thanks Urban Dictionary!).
He addressed my obvious problems, things worked out, and we went out a few more times. He made Valentine’s Day dinner, gave me the flu before I went away, and organized a bitchin’ weekend in Philadelphia after I got home. So yeah, things sound pretty great. On the surface.
If there is one thing I have learned from my perpetual romantic misery it’s that legitimate relationships suck the life out of you. If they don’t something is clearly wrong. So to work through my concerns I have decided to analyze all of the reasons my new relationship is shitter-bound.
1. No signs of schizophrenia –It has been almost two months of involvement and I have yet to stab myself with an umbrella or dry heave “I Will Survive” out of frustration with my partner’s mental incapacities. He’s normal and I don’t know how to deal with it. It may seem like a good thing that he doesn’t own a collection of straight jackets or have a human doll fetish, but this presumed normalcy makes me a little uncomfortable. After all, if he’s mentally stable, how will he deal with me when I reveal my inner psycho, cutting off contact for three days after having a dream that he cheated on me, or bursting into tears during America’s Next Top Model? I’m afraid. Very afraid.
2. Girly Body Wash – Though our Philadelphia weekend was indeed bitchin’ I learned something about Gerard I’d rather not know. Since we were staying in a hotel when I got up for my morning shower, I was unfortunately unable to rifle through his personal belongings like I would had we been at his place. In desperation I did the next best thing and perused his shower accessories. Though I was happy to see that he is anything but hygienically-challenged, I was slightly horrified at one particular discovery: Apricot Orange body wash.
Everyone who knows me knows I could never seriously date a man who uses body wash. I like my men really rugged, and hairy, and dirty, and irrationally masculine. The kind that picks up my loofa and asks if it’s a tampon. You know what I’m saying? No? Ok.
I spent my shower time brainstorming various digs. Various comments that could emasculate him even more than the use of Apricot Orange body wash. But I could think of nothing so extreme so I decided to drop it. Unfortunately for Gerard, my wits only temporarily escaped me and I spent the rest of our time together berating him. Amazingly enough, he still wants to see me.
Maybe I should just let this one go.
3. He’s baselessly supportive of me – Unlike previous fellas who told me things like “you weren’t funny until you met me,” Gerard seems to be convinced that I had a personality prior to meeting him. I’m not sure where he gets this idea since everyone knows women aren’t capable of formulating thoughts independent of their male counterparts, but his insistence that I am “witty” and “amazing” and a “good writer,” tells me he must have ulterior motives of some kind. Perhaps he is plotting a BCBT. It’s really impossible to say. All I know is you can’t trust a guy who doesn’t try to belittle you at every opportunity. It’s just not normal.
Since I’m not in the business of predicting the future, outside of telling others that theirs is doomed, I am not going to say whether or not this relationship will last much longer than my next period. But things have been good so far and if my top three concerns are any indication of how little is actually wrong, it’s safe to say it’ll probably be awhile until I post another hopelessly bitter blog about broken hearts and Ryan Gosling. So in the meantime I can only hope that the rest of my life crumbles around me so I have something else to write about.
Until next time, stay ugly so I feel pretty.
The girl with a crush on the All State raccoon.
How to Handle Your Ex-Husband Having a Baby with the Girl He Got Pregnant While You Were Still Married: A Survival Guide
There comes a day in every woman’s life, when she wakes up and says to herself “today is the day my ex-husband’s new girlfriend is giving birth to the baby he impregnated her with while we were separated.” In fact studies show that women are more likely to get killed by a terrorist than NOT experience this exact situation before the age of 40. Have I blown your mind with this disturbingly specific statistic? Yeah, I thought so.
On said inevitable day, these women will become flustered by mixed feelings of jealousy, resentment, and inexplicable craving for Texas toast garlic bread, and will brutally penetrate the depths of their souls with record-breaking levels of masochism so frightening Kurt Cobain will begin to look like a totally balanced human being. They will find a way, while family members are distracted by conversations of GOP candidates and the real purpose of Craigslist’s Missed Connections, to retreat to a private place in the house, alone, with the stealth of a cat and the self- mutilation of a child actor, and seek information from the Oriole of Petty Truth (OPT) known as Facebook.
For those unfamiliar, the OPT is an effective tool that can assist people of all ages in finding socially relevant information about their friends and family, (birthdays, relationship status, sexuality confirmations of the suspiciously flamboyant, etc.). But, it also doubles as a source for the unhealthy – the sick – the self-loathing, sad, sorry, sons-o-bitches that need Facebook profile proof of the painful suspicians they carry, to find information they really shouldn’t have access to in the first place.
Needless to say, the OPT is the only option to confirm the suspected birth of the ex’s love child. Upon confirmation, these women will experience an outbreak of tears, stress-induced gas, and an emotional collapse bound to involve shaved heads and lipstick tattoos. Think this is too specific to not be based on my own sorry existence? Ha! Fooled you again, silly readers. Why, I never have and never will discuss my personal problems and impending emotional downfall on this joyous and uplifting blog…
Eh, hem. Anyway.
Since I take the Taylor Swift approach to relationships (ie. throw myself into them whole-heartedly and once they are over bash my ex through some subtle, but so totally cute, self-expression) I really don’t care that blogging about this is sort of over the top in the TMI department. Also, I asked my mom if she thought it was ok and she responded with a silent fist bump. So, I had my answer.
So last night, after skillfully maneuvering my way through Facebook and finding proof of my excellent birth prediction skills, I nestled into my seldom-washed bedding, and stared at the plastic-glo star stickers pasted to the ceiling of my bedroom by the previous owner’s children and cried like a bitch. Through a fetal-positioned, tearful rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” I thought about the progress of my life thus far and the unfortunate disaster of marrying someone with addiction issues and highly active sperm. I thought to myself, there must be other people who have experienced something similar to my unwanted, but totally necessary separation, followed by a brief discussion of reconciliation, that was shot down by the unexpected pregnancy of the woman the ex started dating five months into the separation. There has to be someone else out there experiencing a similar need to dry-heave an abundance of confused emotion and Texas toast all over herself in hopes of making herself feel better. It for the presumed existence of those people, that I write this post.
There is nothing worse than feeling like you’ve been screwed over by someone you loved, only to have them have a seemingly happier life than you. But since it is the unfortunate reality of my life and every ousted Rock of Love contestant, I have devised a way to deal with this type of wretched occurrence. Here is my four-step system to dealing with your sadness and avoiding the nearest bridge.
- Let yourself feel hurt – You can’t pretend to be emotionally bionic just because you’re tired of having puffy eyes and no dignity. You have to let yourself feel whatever you are feeling if you are going to get past it. I’ve learned that most things get a little better after a good night’s sleep and a few hours allotted for sadness. Once you wake up and the hours have passed, it’s time to get over it.
- Remind yourself of why this is a good thing for you – While he may be naming his new baby the same name you discussed naming the one you’d have together, you are free to pursue new life experiences and new relationships, baby-free. You are not with a person who doesn’t respect you, you are not with a person who doesn’t value you, and most importantly you are not with a person just because pulling out is an unreliable method of birth control and everyone knows it but you. You have a lot going for you, despite your emotional baggage and unfortunate amount of stretch marks.
- Accept that everything happens the way it is meant to – If you two hadn’t met, married, and separated, he would have never met the woman he got pregnant. Whether you believe in fate, God, or just really unfair coincidences, it is clear that things happen as they are meant to. You can’t f*** around with the universe, you can only hope it doesn’t f*** around with you.
- If all else fails, have cyber-sex with a hot foreigner. It’s anonymously slutty and doesn’t require a condom. Can you say score?
All cleverness aside, the situation for myself and all the fictional women I referred to, sucks. Whether or not you take these steps, won’t change the temporary shittyness you feel. All you can do is suck it up, let it go, and remember pregnancy causes stretch marks too.
The girl who shuns Mark Zuckerberg for his dangerous creation, despite her intense crush on Jesse Eisenburg in the film, (startling wit meets asshole tendencies? Swooooooon)
I am attracted to exceedingly unbalanced people. Of the shamefully large amount of men I have made acquaintance with in the past year, 76% of them have had a sordid history with drugs/alcohol, clinical depression, or an unsettling fetish, 20% have had either small hands, poor vocabulary, or unpleasant speaking voices, and 4% have caused me to act like a psychopath, with their uncanny ability to make me laugh but greater tendency to make me cry. I know. Would I like some cheap sex with that wine? I need a bitch slap straight to the ovaries.
Needless to say, I have questionable taste. It’s not like I intentionally date felons or short-fingered girly men. I just allow my self-involved nature and excuse of looking for a rebound to justify the fact that I am open-minded enough to go out with all types of people, but ultimately too close-minded to take 96% of them seriously. I also can’t spell the word tomorrow without spell check and I still wear a retainer a few nights a week. My roast starts at 9:00. Thanks.
All of this being said, I have discovered that it is incredibly unlikely that there is any man born after 1980 that possesses the six characteristics of my future ex husband. So, I can either:
- Become a spinster with a fish bowl full of piranhas and a strong attraction to long underwear.
- Open my heart to people who do not meet these requirements but still allow me some sort of happiness.
I am opting for option B, not because the dull ache of my perpetual loneliness keeps me up at night, but because I don’t really think an unmarried woman can truly be considered a spinster until the age of 27. As you can see, I got this.
With this decision in place, I have taken it upon myself to brainstorm some categories of individuals from which I will find my prospective soul mate. These are what I have come up with so far:
A shocking 3% of the pie chart of my heart is dedicated to Craig Ferguson, the late night beast with whom I have been in mild love since 1999. His middle-aged perviness and haphazard comedy make me swoon like a Scottish school girl. Plus, he is attracted to fat girls with stretch marks, as discussed in one of his comedy specials I forget the name of due to fainting. Can you say score?
I’d also like to bed David Letterman. That’s all I have to say about that.
2. Recently injured college athletes
The first week of my freshman year of college was a blur. Finding classes, meeting professors, learning how to flush tampons without clogging the dorm toilets. I was bright-eyed and idealistic, with rosy cheeks and fresh implants, ready to conquer the world with my socially awkward approach to making friends that included walking in on girls in the shower and the “Random Facebook Add.”
The “Random Facebook Add” or the “RFA” otherwise known as the “Reluctant Forced Acquaintanceship” is a tool used by college freshmen in an effort to build the ever important network of co-ed “friends.” While others in my dorm used this to connect with their roommates and future frenemies, I had other plans. I was going to “RFA” every member of the college baseball team.
Dignity dismissed, I was out of control! It didn’t matter what the guy looked like or if he even knew my name. I went all night. One after another, back to back, I didn’t care. My roommate tried to stop me, convince me to have a little self control. I couldn’t. The slutty can of worms was open, and I RFAed like it was paying my bills.
Morning after I woke with a shame deeper than what my father feels after reading each blog entry (love you, dad!). But quickly I realized that not only did all of them accept my RFA, but one even poked me! My cheeks are still flushed from the incident.
For a few days I felt hopeful that all of my meaningless RFAs would pay off and I would soon settle with a borderline attractive sub par baseball player of average height and substantial wealth. This, needless to say, did not happen. Why? Because college athletes want to date trampy girls with back tattoos of butterflies, not 18 year old virgins who plan to stay that way until the right guy comes along and offers them free Maroon 5 tickets. So for a long time I gave up the dream.
It was only while brainstorming this deeply profound and life affirming blog entry that I realized I went about this all wrong! Why was I going for actual college athletes, with self confidence and other better looking sexual prospects to choose from, when there were plenty of discarded, recently injured, reject athletes no one wanted? No friends – no girls – no scholarships – no problem!
3. Disney-animated canines
They say you never forget your first love. I know this to be true. Year after year since I was a wee lass with curly blond pigtails and the mouth of a sailor, I have pined over my first love. A love so great, pure, and filled with my passionate lust for communism that I would be willing to commit to an interspecies affair if it meant all of my romantic intentions could finally be fulfilled. I am referring, of course, to Disney’s very foxy Robin Hood.To this day, he is the hottest thing I have ever seen.
As a runner up for my affections, I must admit I’d also chop off my right arm to be with the Tramp of Lady and. Not only is a he a dirty bad boy that in one of the most underrated film shower scenes of all time, teases his female audience with a quickie train station wash, but he is a straight up P.I.M.P. There’s an entire song dedicated to his bad ass womanizing ways.
4. Women I’ll go after if I am ever bi-curious
If all else fails, I think I will be left with no other option than to embrace my inner lesbian and say “hi” to my “bi.” Now settle down you liberal, commy, sons o’ bitches. I ain’t sayin’ it’s a choice. I do however think that everyone has a little bit of homoeroticism buried deep in their tightie-whitie closet. I don’t know a single woman who does not enjoy staring at, grabbing, or talking about another woman’s boobs or bum. Perhaps it is due to a competitive spirit OR (gasp) it is because of some slight nerve tingling attraction no one wants to acknowledge for fear of sounding like Lady Gaga.
That being said, it’s pretty easy for me to provide a list of ladies I’d lez it up for.
Obviously, I have higher standards for women than I do for men.
I am mentally exhausted.
If I can’t settle down with one of these completely unrealistic options than I am buying stock in Cold Water Creek and heading to the aquarium.
Open to suggestions, comments, and general criticisms of my character.
The girl who frequently confuses the letter “f” with the number 5
WARNING: This blog contains serious bitterness regarding love. If you are recently betrothed or awaiting a wedding day, I advise you go back to doodling “Mrs. ______” on your notebook, before you go f*** yourself.
At some point in every woman’s life, she begins to formulate an image of her ideal man. For several pre teen years, my ideal mate was a healthy blend of Milo Ventimiglia and Eminem. I was happy skating through middle school with these expectations, imagining that some day when I was really old, like 17, I would meet Eminemilo waiting in line at some hip downtown club and would woo him with my intellect, wit, and overly developed breasts. Realistic and classy.
It was around this time that my dreams and expectations were shattered. SHATTERED. For this was 2001 when the band Lifehouse first got radio play. Enter: “Hanging By a Moment.”
“I’m falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I’ve held onto….
….And I don’t know what I’m diving into
Just hanging by a moment here with you”
That bullshit f***ed me up more than my parent’s divorce and the time the church Santa Clause called me fat. WTF Jason Wade? Your phony lyrics, equivalent to the creepy poetry exchanged by teenage lesbians, completely obliterated all realistic expectations I had of love. I remember my sister and I lying on our beds in our shared bedroom at my father’s house, talking about how “cute” the lyrics were, how “sweet” the singer must be and about how “sexy” his voice was. Because at that time all it took for a man to be “sexy” was a body weight of 120+ pounds and the ability to profess his undying love to teenage girls through radio waves.
As if those stirrings of emotional confusion were not enough, Lifehouse released yet ANOTHER song containing even greater fabrications about relationships. Enter “Breathing”.
“I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don’t want to speak tonight
That’s alright, alright with me
‘Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven’s door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be”
What? NO ONE FEELS THAT WAY! You can’t drill these thoughts into a little girl’s head, using pop melodies sang/whispered by pretty boy front men through four foot speakers at middle school dances, where the only person without a dancing partner is the chubby blond girl in the corner reading “Pride and Prejudice” because she’s “different.” NO! It’s worse than sexting! This causes permanent damage to the maturity of whatever part of the brain controls our ideas about romance.
But time passed and while I never did get over these fantasies about love, songs by Nelly and 50 Cent evened the curve by teaching me that some men just want to see you “shake it so they can see your thong.” This, as degrading and objectifying as it is, is actually realistic.
But then came 2004, my sophomore year of high school. Fifteen, spritely with a D cup, I had it all! Except my one true love. Enter: Ryan Gosling.
Ryan Gosling. What is there to say about Ryan Gosling that hasn’t already been said? Vision of perfection? Sure. Symbol of truth and romance all men should aspire to? Maybe. I could shower this man with accolades and relentless affection for the rest of my life and it would still not be enough. Why? Noah mother-f***in Calhoun!
Ok, so maybe Ryan Gosling didn’t personally ruin my life. But his portrayal of Noah in the “The Notebook” is single-handedly the most unrealistic, unattainable, fantasy any woman could ever hope for. He wrote her every day for a year? WHAT? He rebuilt the house just to win her back? NO ONE DOES THAT! He can’t give his whole heart to the sad widow because he is too broken? THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!
Ryan Gosling, Noah, and this movie are complete false advertising and here is why:
- The boy you fall in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- At 24, the boy you fell in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- No man will ever love you that much.
You don’t believe me? Well ask yourself this. Where are these men? I am 23 years old and all I have is an addiction-prone ex husband and 50 pounds of baggage in the form of belly fat and cellulite hanging off my stumpy body. I don’t have any love letters or lakefront homes with private porches where I can paint in the nude. No. All I have is a slew of insecurities about the male speed of response to a text message and whether or not I am more attractive to the male population with straight or curly hair.
But it is not all men’s fault. I am, admittedly, an emotional train wreck that makes Octo-mom look like a perfectly functioning member of society. I either have zero feelings for men who really like me or explosive feelings for men who really don’t. So I think if it is any one’s fault it is Lifehouse and the Ryan Gosling/Nicholas Sparks team. My formative teen years were not spent learning that men use emotional manipulation tactics to sleep with you or that if they really like you they will contact you, regardless of how many days it has been since you last met. They were spent as a sponge, soaking up the lies about love and romance we are fed to make us believe that one day Ryan Gosling will sing to you while you dance in the middle of the street and that he won’t know why he can’t take his eyes off of you.
All I can say is this. Be wary ladies and gay men. Be wary of Lifehouse songs and Ryan Gosling.
The girl with intentions of adopting a baby and becoming a lesbian