Do:
Wear very festive “holiday” gear. From some reason all company execs LOVE ugly green and red sweaters with bedazzled reindeers and corny little elves. It makes you look “safe” and “nice.” Matching X-mas tree earrings optional.
Don’t:
Wear your “I’ve been a naughty girl this year…spank me hard” tee shirt with ripped up fishnets and red leather hooker boots. For some reason, this makes you look like a “whore.” Go figure.
Do:
Enjoy a nice holiday toast with upper management. A nice classy glass of wine will do. But just one. No need to fuel the already rampant rumors about your budding alcohol addiction. [Remember that time you came in drunk with the same clothes on as the day before…yes yes…and so do they.]
Don’t: Take multiple “lemon drop” shots at the free bar. Don’t shout out “one more…what the fuck its free isn’t it!!!!!” as you down yet 2 more straight shots of vodka.
And if you do “over do it” DO NOT throw up in front of the CEO before dinner even arrives. Make sure you can AT LEAST make it through the meal. Then you can always blame your “illness” on food poisoning. And not just being a drunkard. (really happened to me. )
Do:
Smile at everyone. Not only will this make you look like you’re actually having a good time, but it will stop all those annoying “oooooh somebody is a grinch this year!!” comments. God.
Don’t: Sulk in a corner listening to your iPod, secretly plotting to call in a false bomb threat just to get the hell out of there, periodically giving dirty looks to the over zealous receptionist singing Christmas carols. I guarantee you’ll look suspicious and your emails will start to be monitored that following day.
Do: Take frequent “smoke” breaks outside. Even if you’re never smoked a cigarette in your life. This is an easy way to kill 10-15 minutes from all the “holiday cheer”. It’ll give you some fresh air, and hopefully erase the awful stench that ass kissing and insincere compliments can leave behind.
Don’t: Force yourself to actually sit and enjoy every moment of this thing. Bathrooms are there for a reason people. I don’t care if everyone startsto think you have a bladder control issue. DO NOT ATTEMPT to actually sit through this thing without loosing your mind. Its just impossible.
Do: Share amusing little “holiday” stories with your co-workers. Maybe that time you were 10 and got that Barbie bicycle you’d been begging for all year.
Don’t: Tell horribly personal stories about your crack head aunt stealing silver ornaments from the tree and trying to pawn them downtown. Or that time your drunk uncle felt you up under the mistle-toe. It’s just not right. And most people will just think you’re weird and run far away. Not quite the image you’re trying to uphold.
Do: Participate in that horribly annoying “secret Santa” gift exchange you’re forced to do every year. You never know…you might end up actually getting something decent. And if not, whatever you get, can always be re-gifted. And really, what is better than that? Nothing.
Don’t: Don’t however, give a gag gift. We know this secret Santa Is a joke. We know that you have no idea who “Julie Kwan” in accounting is. We know that you don’t have time to try and look around and find some non-descript, un-offensive, office-friendly gift. But for the love of God….nobody wants to be sitting at their office dinner and open up a dildo. Even though [and I think you’ll agree with me here] that would be the funniest shit I’ve ever seen in life. But as everyone gasps, and Miss Kwan is staring at the 11 inch penis with horror in her eyes, and you’re the only one laughing, your secret will be up. And no doubt your job will be up too.
The most important thing to remember at this year’s office Christmas party….is that you hate these people. Just because its Christmas doesn’t mean they automatically get a “free pass” from your annoyance. It just means that now you’re drunk and it’s after hours and you might feel more “free” to cuss a bitch out. PLEASE DON’T. The key word in “office Christmas party” is “office.” No matter what you do , you will be judged upon your actions the next day at work. And your name will be office gossip for future generations of disgruntled employees. Keep a low profile. Smile, but not too much. Drink but not too much. Eat but not too much. Be yourself…but [as always ] not too much.
Happy Fucking Holidays.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
If a man really wants you. In real life.
I'm tired of all this fuck ass advice on men that keeps getting forwarded, and posted and tagged. Bunch of single women commenting with their "mmmmhmm that's right" church fan amen blessings.
In real life. In real relationships. These cliche's don't matter. In real love, all the rules are broken, re-written, revised. "Boundaries" and "non-negotiables" are mixed up, crossed and ignored every day.
Because real love is insane. You accept things you never thought you would. You do things you'd never thought you'd do. You think with your heart. For good, bad, or indifferent.
And if you're playing by a set of rules, or if you have any "strategies" on how to get, keep, or make a man love you, then you're not using your heart in full. Love is random, wild and pure. Stop over thinking shit and just go with it.
With all that being said, here is my list on what men do if they really want you. Jokingly of course. This is all a joke, so I couldn't actually make a serious list.
1. They will eat your dry ass chicken you worked hard all night making. And will swallow it down with 36 glasses of red kool-aid, before ever thinking about telling you it was nasty. And when you fall asleep, you will quietly hear them placing a Chinese take out order. But you won't be offended.
2. They will be the one to get all the necessary "post-coitus" clean up materials. Whether it be sock, paper towel, moist towelette or wash cloth. You should never leave the bed with any foreign secretions of any type on your body.
3. They will call. Fuck all this texting/facebooking/twitter jazz. Fuck all this "men don't like to use the phone" tomfoolery. They will call. And call back. And follow that up with another call. And if they're not, well. Sorry boo.
4. They will leave work to come and help you with any car trouble you may have. At the very least, they will send a tow truck for you. They will not ask you to check shit. They will not ask you to call your friends. They will handle it. Even if they don't know shit about cars. Men like to handle shit.
5. They will unclog toilets, drains, and take out garbage. I know its not 1953 and the rules have changed and shit, but....9 out of 10 times, it was his fault shit got clogged up anyhow, so... that's my rule on that lol.
6. They will be nice to your alcoholic mom. Your crazy friends. Your weird co-workers. They will not love the people you love, but they will never try to tell you to cut anyone off. No questions asked.
7. They will leave all cell phones and computers unlocked and password free. A real woman wouldn't check, and a real man wouldn't hide. Besides which, if you're doing some foul shit, and don't know how to cover your ass by now, you need to be caught.
8. They will spoon. Every man hates to spoon. But they will spoon. At least long enough until you fall asleep and they can use some advanced yoga type maneuvers to get out of the position without waking you.
9. They will always know where you are in any public setting. And will be jealous if some other man speaks to you. You'll be annoyed. There may be words exchanged. But in your heart you'll smile a little bit knowing he still fears you might be tempted by another penis. Its nice to still feel sexy and wanted, especially in a room full of new pussy.
10. No matter how rhythmless/bungled/totally unsexy your lap dances are, he will never laugh. He may cut shit short to get to The Sex, but he'll appreciate your effort. And all effort you put forth in the bed. Outfits, lingerie, oils and all kinds of weird shit you've heard from your friends that you'd like to experiment on him with...he'll be down.
In real life. In real relationships. These cliche's don't matter. In real love, all the rules are broken, re-written, revised. "Boundaries" and "non-negotiables" are mixed up, crossed and ignored every day.
Because real love is insane. You accept things you never thought you would. You do things you'd never thought you'd do. You think with your heart. For good, bad, or indifferent.
And if you're playing by a set of rules, or if you have any "strategies" on how to get, keep, or make a man love you, then you're not using your heart in full. Love is random, wild and pure. Stop over thinking shit and just go with it.
With all that being said, here is my list on what men do if they really want you. Jokingly of course. This is all a joke, so I couldn't actually make a serious list.
1. They will eat your dry ass chicken you worked hard all night making. And will swallow it down with 36 glasses of red kool-aid, before ever thinking about telling you it was nasty. And when you fall asleep, you will quietly hear them placing a Chinese take out order. But you won't be offended.
2. They will be the one to get all the necessary "post-coitus" clean up materials. Whether it be sock, paper towel, moist towelette or wash cloth. You should never leave the bed with any foreign secretions of any type on your body.
3. They will call. Fuck all this texting/facebooking/twitter jazz. Fuck all this "men don't like to use the phone" tomfoolery. They will call. And call back. And follow that up with another call. And if they're not, well. Sorry boo.
4. They will leave work to come and help you with any car trouble you may have. At the very least, they will send a tow truck for you. They will not ask you to check shit. They will not ask you to call your friends. They will handle it. Even if they don't know shit about cars. Men like to handle shit.
5. They will unclog toilets, drains, and take out garbage. I know its not 1953 and the rules have changed and shit, but....9 out of 10 times, it was his fault shit got clogged up anyhow, so... that's my rule on that lol.
6. They will be nice to your alcoholic mom. Your crazy friends. Your weird co-workers. They will not love the people you love, but they will never try to tell you to cut anyone off. No questions asked.
7. They will leave all cell phones and computers unlocked and password free. A real woman wouldn't check, and a real man wouldn't hide. Besides which, if you're doing some foul shit, and don't know how to cover your ass by now, you need to be caught.
8. They will spoon. Every man hates to spoon. But they will spoon. At least long enough until you fall asleep and they can use some advanced yoga type maneuvers to get out of the position without waking you.
9. They will always know where you are in any public setting. And will be jealous if some other man speaks to you. You'll be annoyed. There may be words exchanged. But in your heart you'll smile a little bit knowing he still fears you might be tempted by another penis. Its nice to still feel sexy and wanted, especially in a room full of new pussy.
10. No matter how rhythmless/bungled/totally unsexy your lap dances are, he will never laugh. He may cut shit short to get to The Sex, but he'll appreciate your effort. And all effort you put forth in the bed. Outfits, lingerie, oils and all kinds of weird shit you've heard from your friends that you'd like to experiment on him with...he'll be down.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The Virgin Suicides
I lost my virginity my senior year of high school. In my mind, it was to my cute little quarterback boyfriend after prom. It was awkward and sweet and funny and we went on to go to college together and get married and have kids. In my mind.
In reality I was about 180lbs, had probably 4 actual friends and a newly found obsession with the internet.
I never went to my prom. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t get married or go to college. I guess, this is where it all began.
Not to say I was a loser all of my high school career. I was pretty popular up until junior year. And then it just came all crashing down. Depression. Weight gain. Puberty hit me hard. I suppose in retrospect I was always very pretty. But there were two things I wasn’t. White and skinny. And those were the only two things I ever wanted to be. So in a sense, I spent most of my senior year hating myself, just for being myself. Twisted.
It wasn’t just being white and skinny. It was the whole lifestyle that went with it. The parents that had fun 4th of July bbq’s at our beach house. The golden retriever running to the door to meet me when I got home from school. Being able to saunter into homeroom wearing nothing but a soccer hoodie and some jeans, and look like I just stepped off of the cover of Vogue. Being white and skinny gave you this sense of just not giving a fuck. You were entitled to the greatest things life had to offer and you knew it. Since the day you were born you were told that this world was yours for the taking. So you walked around knowing there was a college fund set up for you. And you bitched how you didn’t want to go to college but instead go to LA to be an extra in the next Tom Cruise movie.
You pulled up in the school parking lot in a car your parents bought, and bitched about how it didn’t have a sunroof.
You were homecoming queen. And bitched the whole night that some freshman had the same dress as you.
You had all these normal teenage problems.
And I was invisible. Wearing a size 14. Short hair. Brown skin. DD bra that I had no idea what to do with.
I spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Talking about it. Writing about it. Reading about it.Like most teenagers I guess. Except, I looked at it as something I wasn’t really worthy of. Something I would never achieve. Because I didn’t look like anyone I saw having sex. There was no porn with fat people. (By the way, who would have known there’s actually a whole section devoted just to that. Age brings wisdom eh ? lol)
So I looked at my virginity as some mark. Something I just needed to get rid of. Something I just wanted over and done with.
And there was Maurice. He was old, fat, Italian and creepy. Even his name was gross. Everything about him screamed pedophile. There was not one attractive quality to him.
We chatted. He made me mixed tapes. I remember there was a lot of Beatles on it. Some John Mellancamp. Don Henley. Songs that when I hear them today, instantly make me want to vomit. I hate him not only for taking my virginity, but for making me hate Norwegian Wood. Such a damned good song.
I made up this elaborate lie to my parents that I was going to AC with a friend for the weekend, and her dad was coming to pick me up. And he arrived. All 386 pounds of him. Thick glasses. Thinning hair. And I got in the car and we went off to Atlantic City.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. I remember he have me a gold necklace I later pawned. I remember the comforter on the bed was super scratchy. He went down to gamble a lot, but I had to wait up in the room because I wasn’t 18 yet. I felt lonely. I felt bored. I remember the sound of the slot machines.
The actually “sex” I blacked out from my memory. I remember soaking in a tub afterwards though. In retrospect, a therapist could tell me how I was raped. I could spend hundreds of dollars to relive that night and try and uncover some forgotten memory. Some feeling. That could probably explain/excuse some of the mistakes with men I’d make later on in life. But I’ve never been big on excuses. I’ve always been a very intelligent girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew he was gross. I knew I was 17. I knew I was lying. And I knew I was a virgin. And in my small little mind, the ends justified the means.
I went to school that Monday and pretended nothing happened.
Nothing felt different.
The skinny white girls were preparing for a pep rally. That I wouldn’t attend.
They were having sex with their boyfriends. And although I know had “done it”, I still didn’t feel like them. I still didn’t feel anything close to what they felt.
I still walked the halls alone. Ate alone. Had a pretty shitty last few months actually.
And now, at 30, with a daughter of my own, I would slap the shit out of 17 year old me.
I would do anything in this life to take that year back. Send out my college applications, instead of signing up for chat rooms. Stop worrying about being popular, and study harder. Focus on my writing. Focus on my family. Focus on the life that was passing me by.
But,at 17, you know everything.
In reality I was about 180lbs, had probably 4 actual friends and a newly found obsession with the internet.
I never went to my prom. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t get married or go to college. I guess, this is where it all began.
Not to say I was a loser all of my high school career. I was pretty popular up until junior year. And then it just came all crashing down. Depression. Weight gain. Puberty hit me hard. I suppose in retrospect I was always very pretty. But there were two things I wasn’t. White and skinny. And those were the only two things I ever wanted to be. So in a sense, I spent most of my senior year hating myself, just for being myself. Twisted.
It wasn’t just being white and skinny. It was the whole lifestyle that went with it. The parents that had fun 4th of July bbq’s at our beach house. The golden retriever running to the door to meet me when I got home from school. Being able to saunter into homeroom wearing nothing but a soccer hoodie and some jeans, and look like I just stepped off of the cover of Vogue. Being white and skinny gave you this sense of just not giving a fuck. You were entitled to the greatest things life had to offer and you knew it. Since the day you were born you were told that this world was yours for the taking. So you walked around knowing there was a college fund set up for you. And you bitched how you didn’t want to go to college but instead go to LA to be an extra in the next Tom Cruise movie.
You pulled up in the school parking lot in a car your parents bought, and bitched about how it didn’t have a sunroof.
You were homecoming queen. And bitched the whole night that some freshman had the same dress as you.
You had all these normal teenage problems.
And I was invisible. Wearing a size 14. Short hair. Brown skin. DD bra that I had no idea what to do with.
I spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Talking about it. Writing about it. Reading about it.Like most teenagers I guess. Except, I looked at it as something I wasn’t really worthy of. Something I would never achieve. Because I didn’t look like anyone I saw having sex. There was no porn with fat people. (By the way, who would have known there’s actually a whole section devoted just to that. Age brings wisdom eh ? lol)
So I looked at my virginity as some mark. Something I just needed to get rid of. Something I just wanted over and done with.
And there was Maurice. He was old, fat, Italian and creepy. Even his name was gross. Everything about him screamed pedophile. There was not one attractive quality to him.
We chatted. He made me mixed tapes. I remember there was a lot of Beatles on it. Some John Mellancamp. Don Henley. Songs that when I hear them today, instantly make me want to vomit. I hate him not only for taking my virginity, but for making me hate Norwegian Wood. Such a damned good song.
I made up this elaborate lie to my parents that I was going to AC with a friend for the weekend, and her dad was coming to pick me up. And he arrived. All 386 pounds of him. Thick glasses. Thinning hair. And I got in the car and we went off to Atlantic City.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. I remember he have me a gold necklace I later pawned. I remember the comforter on the bed was super scratchy. He went down to gamble a lot, but I had to wait up in the room because I wasn’t 18 yet. I felt lonely. I felt bored. I remember the sound of the slot machines.
The actually “sex” I blacked out from my memory. I remember soaking in a tub afterwards though. In retrospect, a therapist could tell me how I was raped. I could spend hundreds of dollars to relive that night and try and uncover some forgotten memory. Some feeling. That could probably explain/excuse some of the mistakes with men I’d make later on in life. But I’ve never been big on excuses. I’ve always been a very intelligent girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew he was gross. I knew I was 17. I knew I was lying. And I knew I was a virgin. And in my small little mind, the ends justified the means.
I went to school that Monday and pretended nothing happened.
Nothing felt different.
The skinny white girls were preparing for a pep rally. That I wouldn’t attend.
They were having sex with their boyfriends. And although I know had “done it”, I still didn’t feel like them. I still didn’t feel anything close to what they felt.
I still walked the halls alone. Ate alone. Had a pretty shitty last few months actually.
And now, at 30, with a daughter of my own, I would slap the shit out of 17 year old me.
I would do anything in this life to take that year back. Send out my college applications, instead of signing up for chat rooms. Stop worrying about being popular, and study harder. Focus on my writing. Focus on my family. Focus on the life that was passing me by.
But,at 17, you know everything.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
::The Reluctant Housewife::
Im writing todays post from the little refugee camp I've built for myself on my boyfriends bed. Using a shitty lap top, while my brand new computer sits at home untouched. Staring at pictures of his family and his clothes and his life, as my living room goes unlived in. Untouched. My life, seemingly frozen in time. Drinking Miller Lite, and eating a Veggie Burger. To watch my weight of course, which is escalating at dangerous levels. Like an obese woman ordering a Big Mac with a Diet Coke. I play these little mind games with myself.
I used to get so much confidence from my work. Negotiating deals. Traveling. Meetings. Even when I had a bad day, and I would bitch, and go home and drink wine and lay on my couch, I still felt proud.
Now I just lay on the couch and drink wine.
The pride I get now comes from cooking a good dinner. Having good sex. Keeping a clean house. Spending hours and hours, doing my hair, make-up, buying new clothes. Just so I can trick myself into believing I'm pretty and happy and unfazed by this whole "lay off" thing. While inside I'm silently screaming for help. Tracking down old co-workers, stalking ex-bosses, emailing every single person I've ever met in my whole life, to try and find a place for me just to work at. Just to wake up at 7 am, wear a cute little outfit, get some coffee, and be stuck in traffic listening to bad morning radio shows, like the American Dream that was promised to me.
I am a house wife. the girl who once spray painted her name on an L train platform at 4am wearing a pair of borrowed Gucci heels one size too big and a tough ass leather jacket, is now, a housewife. Ive watched every single episode of every single reality show on tv. And a new found addiction to Criminal Minds.
And I love it. And I hate it. All that the same time.
Its more than just loosing a job. These past 3 months have been about finding myself. Seperate from being someone's "employee". Without the dependancy of my fat ass bi-weekly paychecks. Without the security that I am the "good person" label you recieve, by simiply working. Making peace with the fact that I'm not 21 anymore. I can't just move to Brooklyn and work at a shitty office being a receptionist and living in a rat infested basement apartment, pretending that's "real life."
My real life is now bills, children, relationships, family. And I need to focus on finding a way to put my own selfish desire to the side, and do what's right for the ones that love me right now.
So, as my meat is in the fridge marinating, and my monster.com emails pile up in my inbox, I sit here with my memories of a life past, and the possibility of a new life ahead.
I've decided to go to school to finally do what I was supposed to do over 10 years ago. Be an English teacher. My dream. Since I was 5 really. That got put aside for a little bit.
But until that day comes. Im still here. A refugee in my own life. Hiding under plaid blankets and golf clubs and xbox 360 cartridges, just trying to find my own place
I used to get so much confidence from my work. Negotiating deals. Traveling. Meetings. Even when I had a bad day, and I would bitch, and go home and drink wine and lay on my couch, I still felt proud.
Now I just lay on the couch and drink wine.
The pride I get now comes from cooking a good dinner. Having good sex. Keeping a clean house. Spending hours and hours, doing my hair, make-up, buying new clothes. Just so I can trick myself into believing I'm pretty and happy and unfazed by this whole "lay off" thing. While inside I'm silently screaming for help. Tracking down old co-workers, stalking ex-bosses, emailing every single person I've ever met in my whole life, to try and find a place for me just to work at. Just to wake up at 7 am, wear a cute little outfit, get some coffee, and be stuck in traffic listening to bad morning radio shows, like the American Dream that was promised to me.
I am a house wife. the girl who once spray painted her name on an L train platform at 4am wearing a pair of borrowed Gucci heels one size too big and a tough ass leather jacket, is now, a housewife. Ive watched every single episode of every single reality show on tv. And a new found addiction to Criminal Minds.
And I love it. And I hate it. All that the same time.
Its more than just loosing a job. These past 3 months have been about finding myself. Seperate from being someone's "employee". Without the dependancy of my fat ass bi-weekly paychecks. Without the security that I am the "good person" label you recieve, by simiply working. Making peace with the fact that I'm not 21 anymore. I can't just move to Brooklyn and work at a shitty office being a receptionist and living in a rat infested basement apartment, pretending that's "real life."
My real life is now bills, children, relationships, family. And I need to focus on finding a way to put my own selfish desire to the side, and do what's right for the ones that love me right now.
So, as my meat is in the fridge marinating, and my monster.com emails pile up in my inbox, I sit here with my memories of a life past, and the possibility of a new life ahead.
I've decided to go to school to finally do what I was supposed to do over 10 years ago. Be an English teacher. My dream. Since I was 5 really. That got put aside for a little bit.
But until that day comes. Im still here. A refugee in my own life. Hiding under plaid blankets and golf clubs and xbox 360 cartridges, just trying to find my own place
Sunday, August 21, 2011
::Joni Mitchell Never Lied::
"Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone" - Joni Mitchell: Big Yellow Taxi
"But I’ve been drinking so much
That I’ma call her anyway and say
“F-ck that nigga that you love so bad
I know you still think about the times we had” - Drake: Marvin's Room
So you've made it. Survived a horrible breakup. Fought your way through countless nights of vodka and tears, only to wake up and wash it down with greasy egg sandwiches and advil the next morning. Deep club mixes provide the soundtrack to your life. Empty flirtations and expensive cab rides of regret. You got over it. Made your girlfriends go out on endless "girl power" trips. Began dating again. Date after date after date. Always some fancy place, with some guy in a suit, talking about his careers and goals. You sitting there, figiting with your dress, trying to remember if you left your curling iron on before you left the house. You then vow to give up dating. You're done. You're happy with yourself, by yourself.
And then it happens. You meet someone. Or, in my case, you look at someone you've always known in a new light.
And, you fall in love.
Happy, glorious, Nicholas Sparks type cheesy love. Family bbq's, trips to the beach, parties, lots and lots of days shut off from the world together. In a bed tangled up in sheets, and dvd's and baby-makin playlists. Just you two in your own little bubble.
While in this bubble, there begins to form a circle of opposition around you. A virtual army of soldiers, all holding a sharp object, ready to pop your bubble, and drag you back out into the real world with them. Men and women unite, to get back what they once had.
So as you drowsily climb out of bed, and saunter into the kitchen to grab some water, you check your missed texts and calls, and find yourself sitting there, naked, on the couch, awestruck. You repeat the words in your head. Those drunk slurred "You know I've always loved you. I miss you." On repeat. Somewhere in the sentence, a hint of a tear...maybe.Raw, drunk powerful words. Interrupting your night, like DJ Clue on every god damn CD he ever made. Out of nowhere. Just that damn echo. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE....
Men always want what they cant have. And women always want, what someone else has.
Its just life.
As you're sitting there stunned, because the one person you tried so hard to love. The one man that you wanted so badly to be with, finally, on this night, has come to his senses, your boyfriend is in the bedroom fighting off his own bubble-poppers.
Women use the lure of great sex, just as men use the lure of being loved.
All of a sudden, girls are willing to do whatever you want them to. Mouths that were once closed to the idea of oral sex, are suddenly wide open. And pardon the expression, thirsty.
They just can't believe that they are not attractive/sexy/amazing enough to actually be rejected by him. This "relationship" can't be real. No way he would turn down free vagina on a silver platter... "all this wetness all around me,true but im no island.."
It's all an elaborate game.
See, you had years to treat these people right. Countless times to try and win their love. And now that they've moved on, you suddenly have this epiphany? Chile please.
Men, you need to realize what you have when you have it.
I blame Nike. Ever since we were kids, you would buy a pair of sneakers, and then immediately throw them in a box and forget about them as soon as the next new pair came out.
Until you ultimately had a closet full of beautiful leather designs, but no money left to wear them anywhere.
Same with women. You collect us all like PokeMon cards. Just keeping us on hold, waiting. Stash some under the mattress, in a drawer, in a closet. Keeping everyone holding on by a thin string, with the allure that ONE DAY, ONE DAY when you're ready, you will FINALLY play with us. And then one day you realize someone stole a card. And even though you have 6894 more, that ONE card missing is KILLING you.
Add regret. Mix lust. Stir with some ugly broads and a bad DJ, and you get 3 am drives home confessing your everlasting love to the one girl that left.
You can miss me with all that.
And ladies. Men are not a Louis Vuitton bag that your girlfriend has that you envy. You can not "borrow" it to go to the club. You can not "use it" because it matches your outfit. Men take time, work, patience, and love. Do not be so vain as to think that one blow job from you, will make them turn their back on all the shit they have waiting for them at home.
Offering all kinds of sexual promises, favors, innuendos and such...for what?
Lets say you "win". And he fucks you on the side one night.
What do you really get out of that? Some kind of weird satisfaction knowing that you were able to tempt someone? Do you imagine that he will realize his mistake and suddenly dump the person he's with and run to your arms?
Chile please.
You had that same sub-par vagina for the past 26 years and he never made you his girlfriend. And now you're just some hoe, with wack vagina, that he regretfully smanged because he was drunk.
Give it a rest.
The most important lesson you can learn in this life, is to find, embrace, and keep happiness. And when you see someone else has found happiness, please support them as you would want their support.
Throwing insults at the new person they're with, or throwing your naked pics their way, isn't going to do anything but embarrass you both.
Grow up. Learn to keep the toys you love the most. If you neglect them, or mistreat them, someone else will steal them right from under you.And when that day comes, don't cry. Just learn the lesson and move on.
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone" - Joni Mitchell: Big Yellow Taxi
"But I’ve been drinking so much
That I’ma call her anyway and say
“F-ck that nigga that you love so bad
I know you still think about the times we had” - Drake: Marvin's Room
So you've made it. Survived a horrible breakup. Fought your way through countless nights of vodka and tears, only to wake up and wash it down with greasy egg sandwiches and advil the next morning. Deep club mixes provide the soundtrack to your life. Empty flirtations and expensive cab rides of regret. You got over it. Made your girlfriends go out on endless "girl power" trips. Began dating again. Date after date after date. Always some fancy place, with some guy in a suit, talking about his careers and goals. You sitting there, figiting with your dress, trying to remember if you left your curling iron on before you left the house. You then vow to give up dating. You're done. You're happy with yourself, by yourself.
And then it happens. You meet someone. Or, in my case, you look at someone you've always known in a new light.
And, you fall in love.
Happy, glorious, Nicholas Sparks type cheesy love. Family bbq's, trips to the beach, parties, lots and lots of days shut off from the world together. In a bed tangled up in sheets, and dvd's and baby-makin playlists. Just you two in your own little bubble.
While in this bubble, there begins to form a circle of opposition around you. A virtual army of soldiers, all holding a sharp object, ready to pop your bubble, and drag you back out into the real world with them. Men and women unite, to get back what they once had.
So as you drowsily climb out of bed, and saunter into the kitchen to grab some water, you check your missed texts and calls, and find yourself sitting there, naked, on the couch, awestruck. You repeat the words in your head. Those drunk slurred "You know I've always loved you. I miss you." On repeat. Somewhere in the sentence, a hint of a tear...maybe.Raw, drunk powerful words. Interrupting your night, like DJ Clue on every god damn CD he ever made. Out of nowhere. Just that damn echo. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE....
Men always want what they cant have. And women always want, what someone else has.
Its just life.
As you're sitting there stunned, because the one person you tried so hard to love. The one man that you wanted so badly to be with, finally, on this night, has come to his senses, your boyfriend is in the bedroom fighting off his own bubble-poppers.
Women use the lure of great sex, just as men use the lure of being loved.
All of a sudden, girls are willing to do whatever you want them to. Mouths that were once closed to the idea of oral sex, are suddenly wide open. And pardon the expression, thirsty.
They just can't believe that they are not attractive/sexy/amazing enough to actually be rejected by him. This "relationship" can't be real. No way he would turn down free vagina on a silver platter... "all this wetness all around me,true but im no island.."
It's all an elaborate game.
See, you had years to treat these people right. Countless times to try and win their love. And now that they've moved on, you suddenly have this epiphany? Chile please.
Men, you need to realize what you have when you have it.
I blame Nike. Ever since we were kids, you would buy a pair of sneakers, and then immediately throw them in a box and forget about them as soon as the next new pair came out.
Until you ultimately had a closet full of beautiful leather designs, but no money left to wear them anywhere.
Same with women. You collect us all like PokeMon cards. Just keeping us on hold, waiting. Stash some under the mattress, in a drawer, in a closet. Keeping everyone holding on by a thin string, with the allure that ONE DAY, ONE DAY when you're ready, you will FINALLY play with us. And then one day you realize someone stole a card. And even though you have 6894 more, that ONE card missing is KILLING you.
Add regret. Mix lust. Stir with some ugly broads and a bad DJ, and you get 3 am drives home confessing your everlasting love to the one girl that left.
You can miss me with all that.
And ladies. Men are not a Louis Vuitton bag that your girlfriend has that you envy. You can not "borrow" it to go to the club. You can not "use it" because it matches your outfit. Men take time, work, patience, and love. Do not be so vain as to think that one blow job from you, will make them turn their back on all the shit they have waiting for them at home.
Offering all kinds of sexual promises, favors, innuendos and such...for what?
Lets say you "win". And he fucks you on the side one night.
What do you really get out of that? Some kind of weird satisfaction knowing that you were able to tempt someone? Do you imagine that he will realize his mistake and suddenly dump the person he's with and run to your arms?
Chile please.
You had that same sub-par vagina for the past 26 years and he never made you his girlfriend. And now you're just some hoe, with wack vagina, that he regretfully smanged because he was drunk.
Give it a rest.
The most important lesson you can learn in this life, is to find, embrace, and keep happiness. And when you see someone else has found happiness, please support them as you would want their support.
Throwing insults at the new person they're with, or throwing your naked pics their way, isn't going to do anything but embarrass you both.
Grow up. Learn to keep the toys you love the most. If you neglect them, or mistreat them, someone else will steal them right from under you.And when that day comes, don't cry. Just learn the lesson and move on.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
::Pandoras Box::
"Pandora had a jar which she was not to open under any circumstance. Impelled by her natural curiosity, Pandora opened the jar, and all evil contained escaped and spread over the earth. She hastened to close the lid, but the whole contents of the jar had escaped, except for one thing which lay at the bottom, and that was Hope. "
"What is done cannot be undone." Macbeth: Shakespeare
Since the beginning of time, women have gotten a bad rap. From Adam blaming Eve for "forcing" him to bite the apple, to Pandora being blamed for all of the evil in the world, women have constantly been taking the rap for "the downfall of man."
Me, being a total expert at spinning issues like a Fox News anchor, would like to pose the question: Who is more at fault? The men who create the evil, or the women who expose it?
In 2011 the struggle continues. Pandora's box still exists, only now it is in the form of a handheld electrical device made by some assembly worker in a dirty Japanese warehouse. A man's cellphone. Wherein lies some of the Earths most evil, vulgar, sinister secrets.
It's often said that in a relationship, you should have 100% trust in the other person. To the people that say that, I challenge you to find a cell phone, and totally fight the urge to do a quick "cell scroll". Just a little peeksee. Just a little dibble dabble into the life of another person.
Even if its a total strangers cell phone, that innate nosiness. That natural urge for a little peek in someone else's secret life, is pretty hard to suppress.
Blame Pandora.
There are things that you can expect to find in a man's cell. Naked photos. Some old saved texts from ex-girlfriends. Maybe a few "I miss you" calls made on a drunken, complicated night.
And there are some things that take you completely by surprise. Especially when you do think you know someone, and trust them 100%. Especially when you were simply being "nosey" and really didnt expect to find anything.
There are some things, that you wish you hadn't seen. But can never forget.
That is the first crack in any relationship's foundation. That first questioning of trust. That first "oh shit." moment.
I'm not a mason, but I would assume there are cracks in most foundations. I think the key is that as long as they are minimal, and patched up correctly, they will still last the test of weathering, time and natural disasters. The key is to set them correctly, and not to put too many other bricks on top of the foundation until you're sure it can support the weight.
So after a long night of fighting, you think about all this. And you come to the conclusion that it was a small crack. No biggie.
But irreparable damage has already been done.
You will forever be that nosey bitch that went through my shit.
And he will forever be that asshole that's just like every other man.
The pedestals have been leveled. And you are no longer the perfect couple, in a bubble, hidden from the worlds evils.
You are now just two people trying to build something, without letting the outside temptation of the world tear you apart.
Perhaps ignorance is bliss. Or simply, a phone lock.
"What is done cannot be undone." Macbeth: Shakespeare
Since the beginning of time, women have gotten a bad rap. From Adam blaming Eve for "forcing" him to bite the apple, to Pandora being blamed for all of the evil in the world, women have constantly been taking the rap for "the downfall of man."
Me, being a total expert at spinning issues like a Fox News anchor, would like to pose the question: Who is more at fault? The men who create the evil, or the women who expose it?
In 2011 the struggle continues. Pandora's box still exists, only now it is in the form of a handheld electrical device made by some assembly worker in a dirty Japanese warehouse. A man's cellphone. Wherein lies some of the Earths most evil, vulgar, sinister secrets.
It's often said that in a relationship, you should have 100% trust in the other person. To the people that say that, I challenge you to find a cell phone, and totally fight the urge to do a quick "cell scroll". Just a little peeksee. Just a little dibble dabble into the life of another person.
Even if its a total strangers cell phone, that innate nosiness. That natural urge for a little peek in someone else's secret life, is pretty hard to suppress.
Blame Pandora.
There are things that you can expect to find in a man's cell. Naked photos. Some old saved texts from ex-girlfriends. Maybe a few "I miss you" calls made on a drunken, complicated night.
And there are some things that take you completely by surprise. Especially when you do think you know someone, and trust them 100%. Especially when you were simply being "nosey" and really didnt expect to find anything.
There are some things, that you wish you hadn't seen. But can never forget.
That is the first crack in any relationship's foundation. That first questioning of trust. That first "oh shit." moment.
I'm not a mason, but I would assume there are cracks in most foundations. I think the key is that as long as they are minimal, and patched up correctly, they will still last the test of weathering, time and natural disasters. The key is to set them correctly, and not to put too many other bricks on top of the foundation until you're sure it can support the weight.
So after a long night of fighting, you think about all this. And you come to the conclusion that it was a small crack. No biggie.
But irreparable damage has already been done.
You will forever be that nosey bitch that went through my shit.
And he will forever be that asshole that's just like every other man.
The pedestals have been leveled. And you are no longer the perfect couple, in a bubble, hidden from the worlds evils.
You are now just two people trying to build something, without letting the outside temptation of the world tear you apart.
Perhaps ignorance is bliss. Or simply, a phone lock.
Monday, July 4, 2011
::All I see is fireworks::
July 4th, 2011. Independence Day.
So America was all “fuck the British, we wanna do our own shit.” And they had wars and slavery and diseases and corruption and a pretty fucked up 200 or so years.
So Christina was all “fuck men get money, I wanna do my own shit.” And she had evictions and restraining orders and illnesses and a pretty fucked up 30 years.
When you’re young, everyone tells you, you can do whatever you want. That you don’t need anybody.
You feel like you can take over the world. Or, if the world is already occupied, you can just steal it, and claim it as yours. (Word to the colonists) Because YOU ARE THE SHIT.
You go through your life like this. This whole “the world is mine” attitude. Take no prisoners. You never need to actually “work out” relationship problems, because behind every Ciroc bottle being served in a dark club at 3am, there’s 50 new dudes waiting in line.
You never actually need to “over-achieve” at work, because, shit, life is SHORT! Work hard, but player harder. And you’re 25 making 45k.So really? Who gonna check me boo? Until, of course. They fire you.
And then you get to this moment. This very moment in life. When all you want to do is grab a blanket, and go lay out in the grass somewhere with some wine…perhaps a little Gouda, and chill with someone to watch the fireworks. And then you realize there is no one.
There’s a difference between “independent” and “alone”. HUGE difference. Just because you can pay your rent, car etc. Just because you can do your own taxes, hair etc. Just because you CAN take care of yourself without anyone else, doesn’t mean you want to be alone.
Hell. Even America is ridiculously dependent on other countries for shit we cant produce here. Like oil.
Penis is my oil.
Wars. Deaths. Financial ruin. Have all resulted from the pursuit of good penis. Errr uhh oil.
And you sit here, taking sips of wine from a box, filing your unemployment claim online, petting your gay cat…crying at your computer.
Because you’re not 25 anymore. Now you’re 30. And there aren’t 50 dudes waiting for you. There’s like 3. And they’re just as bitter and jaded as you are at this point. And you think back to all the fireworks you’ve seen in your life. All those moments, sitting with your family, watching fireworks and being bored as shit.
And you would give anything to rewind the clock and go back to those days. At least then you knew you were loved. And wanted. On a blanket, celebrating the birth of our country.
But you were too good for your family.
Just like you were too good for the last dude. Etc. Etc. Etc.
When. If. I get married. I want fireworks. I want the biggest most beautiful fireworks you could ever imagine. I want people to stop in their cars and watch our fireworks on a random Saturday night. And wonder what the hell are they celebrating?
And I will say, I’m celebrating our independence. The birth of our marriage. And our breaking away from this life of lonely self-centeredness.
But of course. That day….LOL Don’t hold your breath.
So America was all “fuck the British, we wanna do our own shit.” And they had wars and slavery and diseases and corruption and a pretty fucked up 200 or so years.
So Christina was all “fuck men get money, I wanna do my own shit.” And she had evictions and restraining orders and illnesses and a pretty fucked up 30 years.
When you’re young, everyone tells you, you can do whatever you want. That you don’t need anybody.
You feel like you can take over the world. Or, if the world is already occupied, you can just steal it, and claim it as yours. (Word to the colonists) Because YOU ARE THE SHIT.
You go through your life like this. This whole “the world is mine” attitude. Take no prisoners. You never need to actually “work out” relationship problems, because behind every Ciroc bottle being served in a dark club at 3am, there’s 50 new dudes waiting in line.
You never actually need to “over-achieve” at work, because, shit, life is SHORT! Work hard, but player harder. And you’re 25 making 45k.So really? Who gonna check me boo? Until, of course. They fire you.
And then you get to this moment. This very moment in life. When all you want to do is grab a blanket, and go lay out in the grass somewhere with some wine…perhaps a little Gouda, and chill with someone to watch the fireworks. And then you realize there is no one.
There’s a difference between “independent” and “alone”. HUGE difference. Just because you can pay your rent, car etc. Just because you can do your own taxes, hair etc. Just because you CAN take care of yourself without anyone else, doesn’t mean you want to be alone.
Hell. Even America is ridiculously dependent on other countries for shit we cant produce here. Like oil.
Penis is my oil.
Wars. Deaths. Financial ruin. Have all resulted from the pursuit of good penis. Errr uhh oil.
And you sit here, taking sips of wine from a box, filing your unemployment claim online, petting your gay cat…crying at your computer.
Because you’re not 25 anymore. Now you’re 30. And there aren’t 50 dudes waiting for you. There’s like 3. And they’re just as bitter and jaded as you are at this point. And you think back to all the fireworks you’ve seen in your life. All those moments, sitting with your family, watching fireworks and being bored as shit.
And you would give anything to rewind the clock and go back to those days. At least then you knew you were loved. And wanted. On a blanket, celebrating the birth of our country.
But you were too good for your family.
Just like you were too good for the last dude. Etc. Etc. Etc.
When. If. I get married. I want fireworks. I want the biggest most beautiful fireworks you could ever imagine. I want people to stop in their cars and watch our fireworks on a random Saturday night. And wonder what the hell are they celebrating?
And I will say, I’m celebrating our independence. The birth of our marriage. And our breaking away from this life of lonely self-centeredness.
But of course. That day….LOL Don’t hold your breath.
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