Buzz, your girlfriend…woof!

It’s been a very long while since I’ve mentioned anything about my freelance work at the magazine with Jesus Belt (ahem, David).

For the most part, things have been going pretty well. I’ve been able to swing some pretty cool assignments that are taking me out of my element, and I’m getting to work with a group of writers I respect, which challenges me (in a good way, of course).

My rather rocky relationship with David has mostly reached its smooth path, hitting a bump here and there. A little more than a month ago, he sent me a text on a Friday night.

“You going out tonight?”

Well…hell-o, there. Have I considered dating Jesus Belt? No. However, he does remind me physically of ShyGuy (my one day lovuh) and his personality reminds me of an editor I had in college, who I developed a crush on until I found out he told people he “so could have had a threesome with me.”

So yeah, I would kiss Jesus Belt. But anyway…

I’m all, “yeah I’ll be at such and such bar.”

He says, “My out-of-town gf is in for a visit and I think we’ll go there, too.”

Umm…what?

Am I just a faggot? Why would he ask me if I was going out, then throw in the gf card? I mulled over this for several minutes, to which I concluded two things—either I think men are flirting with me when they are indeed NOT, or he wanted his gf to think he was super popular living in this new city of his.

Hrmph.

I went to the bar with my friends and proceeded to get pretty sloppy, and thankfully, never saw JB or his gf.

Well, until our weekly meeting that is. I walked in the war room to find a homely girl, whom I’d never seen before, sitting in front of a computer, packing up her messenger bag.

Her hair was cut similar to mine was in the 9th grade—like a mushroom. Am I on the cutting edge of fashion? No, but I do know that mushroom cuts, spaghetti-strap tanks, and shorty-shorts with shower shoes were never in style for chubby gals (nor are they for the skinny bitches, either).

So, there she was. Dave’s gf. The boring, plain, white rice chick.

Jealous? No. She lives a good 15 hours away from her bf, who wears a Jesus Belt, holding up paisley pantsuits. Please.

But really? Dating chunky girls are in now? Here I am, trying to make the most of what’s in my closet (last season’s j-crew), and perfecting my at-home manicure to compete with WASPs and Kardashian look-a-likes, when it’s the pasty, square-state chicks gettin’ all the dick.

What’s a girl to do? Or maybe, the proper question would be…WWBD?

Since I met Dave’s gf, we’ve gotten in a few silly tifs. Well, they are silly on his end…not on mine, of course. The first one started with a story idea I had to introduce and cover the adult kickball team in town.

When I suggested the idea…he was like, “ok…yeah…cool,” and doing some sort of bedroom eyes with the sports’ editor. “It’s not too late to sign up for the team is it?”

“Umm..I’m not sure,” I said.

“Well, you’re playing in the first game,” he said.

“No, I’m not. I won’t.”

“Hey, Lucky, it was your idea. How messed up is that…you come in with an idea and want to pass it off on someone else?”

“Umm hey ASSHOLE, my idea was just to write about the team and the first match—not make a damn fool out of myself playing kickball!”

“Why don’t you want to play kickball?”

“Because I’m lazy.”

“Lucky, kickball is like, the most non-athletic sport there is. You can play it drunk.”

“I’m not doing it. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit for this magazine, but I have to draw the line somewhere and this is it!”

“Honestly, the fact that you’re getting so upset over it is making me more amped on you playing in the first game,” he said (same defense used in rape cases around the globe).

Luckily, the entire kickball season was cancelled because not enough people signed up to participate. There is a God.

A few weeks later, I wrote a review of a new pizza joint in town. And it was not a stellar review…something about their “sweep the floor” pizza actually tasting like the contents of a dustpan.

That didn’t go over so well. Late one night after I turned it in, Dave sent me an e-mail saying he didn’t mention the policy we had that we can never write a bad review.

Umm…excuse me?

He went through this long schpeal about how yeah, it may be unethical, and yeah, it might not make sense to me, but people only want to read places TO go, not places they shouldn’t go. He signed off with, “don’t hate me.”

Sigh.

“D—I don’t hate you. I just think your policy is lame and I won’t do reviews anymore.”

And that was that.

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