Category Archives: Douche Day

The source of all my troubles.

Remember when I told you guys I was anxious about my magazine meeting on Friday because I would have to see JB? Well I decided to do myself a favor and skip the damn thing. I just couldn’t do it to myself.

After a particularly long and exhausting week, I went home Friday evening a zoned out in front of the television and was asleep before 10. When I awoke around 1 am, I had a few texts from JB: No meeting today? Did you tell me you were going out-of-town? I tried my best to be on time and look presentable…

I replied, telling him I was in a bad mood and had just been very busy at my day job.

“Don’t worry about it. Just as long as you’re not mad at me.”

As you can see, the JB situation continues to be rather confusing, and will probably remain that way until we know each other better, or not.

I was talking with my mom on the phone over the weekend and she asked me about The Ex—where did he stand? Her question arose after I told her he kindly brought me Never Say Never last week. I told her a story that I realized I’d kept to myself…and it’s pretty important.

It was a little more than a month ago, The Ex was in town, doing some work on his parents’ home. On that Saturday night, he texted me to see what I was up to. I told him I had plans (ok, so they were to stay in and watch the Lifetime movie of Wills & Kate, but…). He said he was going to stay in and watch a movie with his parents. Ok, night night.

I went to sleep, and woke up, as I usually do, around 1:30. Minutes afterward, my phone buzzed with a text message. The Ex. “You still awake?”

I replied, saying I had just woken up. He wanted to come over.

“Did you go out?” I asked him, wondering why a night in with the parents would result in a near-2 am text message.

“To Bruce’s house.”

I told him he could come over. When he called to say he was near my place, he sounded a little buzzed. Once he got to my apartment, he said he’d be right up.

So, there I stood in the dark. Waiting.

When he wasn’t at my apartment five minutes later, I wondered if this whole thing was a joke. So I called him back.

“Yes I am here. I had to pee.”

“Umm, well I have a bathroom in my apartment, you don’t have to piss outside.”

He was drunk.

When he finally got to my door, he was holding a beer, and sporting a neon wristband.

“Oh, they’re giving out wristbands at Bruce’s house now?” I asked.

“I told you I went to the bar,” he said.

“No…you told me you went to Bruce’s.”

“I did…he’s out of town, I had to feed his dog.”

So that sparked a nice little fight with several layers—why was he in town, not making plans to visit anyone (especially me) and then lying. Lying about his plans, the bar, etc.

We paced around my living room, him wanting to know why I hated him so much, me telling him I was sick of the games, sick of being played. And then, his phone started ringing.

It was 3 am.

“Why is someone calling you at 3 am?” I asked.

“It’s probably an alarm….or it’s running low on battery.”

Lies. More lies. I marched over to the phone, still buzzing on my kitchen counter: BONNYE.

Bonnye is a girl The Ex dated before we met. Once I started sleeping with The Ex, Bonnye would show up at our bar during one of our bartending shifts, proceed to get wasted, and tell everyone that The Ex was her boyfriend.

Her parents own several bars in the city, including one where The Ex still works. She has been a constant source of worries for me, since day one.

“Why is Bonnye calling you at 3 am?” I asked.

He went through the usual bullshit—we’re still friends, nothing is going on, I don’t want her…she just got dumped a few days ago so we’ve been talking about it.

“Oh really? Why did she get dumped?” I asked.

“Umm I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me that.”

“You just fucking said you guys had been talking about the breakup.”

As we continued to fight, she continued to call. She called 15 times. I pressed “ignore” and she would call right back.

I’m sure you’re all saying I should have learned my lesson by now, but it was that moment that was more clarifying than perhaps any moment prior. All of the sudden, I saw it. He was keeping a pool of women at his fingertips, whether he likes us, loves us, hates us, whatever—he uses us for whatever reason. I was witnessing his lies unfolding, and it was proof he has an entirely other life that I’m no part of, knew nothing about.

Since then, I have felt a weird sense of anxiety—a need to push him, and others, away. I don’t know how I got so caught up in his mess.

But last night, I found a short sense of relief during my first ever boxing class. My instructor even wrapped my hands and everything.

The class hurt like hell. I realized just how out of shape I am. But while I was punching that bag, all I thought of was Bonnye. The Ex. All of my exes.

And it felt great.

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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.”


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.


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.”


“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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Since I sucked at life the past few weeks and haven’t posted any of douchearoo’s douchey emails to his douchey friends, I’ve got a double trouble douche day for you my little nuggets.  First a story about the sneaky douche, snoop-linus.

After the most embarrassing night of my life Friday, I wake up Sunday morning with a text from snoop-linus and one from my friend Dina.  Mind you, we haven’t spoken in over a month and he still calls and texts every single day of my wretched life.  The content of his text isn’t important, but what Dina’s text said most certainly is, “I don’t know if you care but I don’t know what to do with this.  I just saw snoop-linus all over some old mom and then he got in a car with her.” I have his facebook, email, and cell phone account passwords from when we were together.  I had to have them to keep track of his cheating ass.  I get on facebook and see he has a new “older” friend, bingo, spank you Dina.  From scouring around her profile I can tell she is about 35, married, with three children.  I’m thinking to myself, how the fuck does he know this old gunner? I go into his sent box and see this little gem from snoop-linus to old gunner:

Heyyy, just wanted to say thanks again for the ride home.  Had to hit you up on fb since you wouldn’t give me your digits haha.  You’re an awesome person.  Here’s my number ***-***-**** text me tomorrow when you wake up in the a.m.  I have to work until about 9 but after that we should go to the fairgrounds and watch the fireworks.


P.s. I don’t care what level you’re on, I like the person that you are.

I was immediately infuriated, because I was jealous? HELL-TO-THE-FUCKING-NO, I was disgusted.  The lady has a family for christ’s sake.  So what do I do about it?  I break a month long silence to tell snoop-linus that he is a disgusting piece of shit and he has got to be bat shit crazy if he thinks some old gunner is going to risk losing her family for some 23 year old druggie, who hasn’t graduated college, and works at the chicken palace.  He took this as an opening to try and win me back which later turned into him attacking the person I am, calling me no fun and a sour puss to which I reply, “Really? Because your friend seemed to think I was fun Friday night.”  I’m sure it’s driving him crazy trying to figure out which of his friends I was talking about.  Score -> Gizzy: 1 – Snoop-Linus: 0

On to the douche that douche day was created on behalf of, Douchearoo.  The counter fellatio email: The day: Sunday January 13, 2008.  The time: 6:38 p.m.

A little background for E.  As you may or may not know I have been banging the neighbor Chi O chica.  The details are fairly unimportant but it is pertinent to for you to know that, up to this point in the story, we had fornicated more than once.

Saturday night.  Beer pong at Horse’s new place.  Chi O comes over with a friend.  Jew Fro and I handily beat them five times.

Chi O and I are on the third floor of the bar talking about nothing in particular. Finally we have perhaps the greatest conversation I have ever been a part of.

Chi: I can tell you have been checking out other girls all night.

Douchearoo: Not anymore than usual.

Chi: Look, I’m not stupid I know you are probably doing stuff with other girls and I hope you know you are not the only guy I have been with.

Douchearoo: Ok.

Chi: I have just never met anyone capable of having a strictly sexual relationship.  Just keep calling me when you are out drinking with the guys and when I feel like having sex I will answer.

Douchearoo: No arguments here.

Chi: I’m pretty sure you will be cool about this.  I’m also pretty sure I want to have sex with you tonight.

Douchearoo: Lets go.

Back at my apartment we jump into bed and I fingerblast away for about 15 minutes.  Finally she rolls off and says “I can’t do this.”  I start to think that she has come to her senses and wants a relationship which she would have been vehemently denied.  She says and I quote, “This is too much foreplay, just (curse word) me and I’ll go home.”

You don’t need to tell me twice.  After coitus, I go wash the slimy condom feeling off my (curse word.) She pulls me back into the room and says she wants to do it again.  Good for her but I don’t.  It is 3 a.m. and I inform her that if she makes me wear a condom again I will have sex until 7 a.m.

Now here is the funny part.  She says I don’t have to wear a condom.  I ask her if she is just drunk or stupid because I know she is not on birth control.  She retorts, “What is the worst that could happen?”  She is stupid.  I know she is not even on birth control.  After our five minute round table about the ‘worst that could happen’ she tells me that even if she were with child she would never keep it, not make me pay for half of the procedure, and would not even tell me if she were pregnant.  Yes, all those responses were direct results of my questions.

I finally convince her that she is stupid and I am not going skins in.  Then at 3:08 a.m. exactly she is handing out fellatio to me on our kitchen counter.

Douchearoo:  You know my roommates are going to walk in the door here any second.

She looks at me with a full mouthed blank expression.

Douchearoo:  I can handle an audience if you can.

Of course she stopped before anyone walked in (I kept trying to push her head down and she didn’t like it; prude.) She walks out and tells me that was fun and “you know where I live.”

The point here is that this could be a semester long of pure fun.  How exciting.

What. A. Douche.  Speaking of douchearoo, I went out to dinner with my friend and old roommate Mercedes last week who douchearoo hates.  She is recently single so she is on the prowl for men as well.  I drove to her hometown about an hour south of where I go to school, which is also conveniently where douchearoo now lives and works.  It’s a big city, so the chances of ever seeing him are slim to none.  We decided to go to a prominent bar area about 7pm that night so that we can sit outside and gawk at the hot guys passing by.  We decide on a bar and as we’re walking up, Mercedes notices 3 guys sitting at a table outside and says to me, “Hey, there’s a table of 3 guys!! We can sit by them and talk to them, it’s perfect!”  As we approach the patio area we notice that the 3 guys are douchearoo, his douchey farmer friend, and his douchey midget roommate.  We immediately turn around and go back from the way we came.  Douchearoo definitely saw us, he turned bright red and put his face in his hands.  Don’t worry douchearoo, I don’t want to talk to your douchey ass either.  Faggot.

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