Category Archives: ShyGuy

The breakup weekend (part II).

When we LAST left ShyGuy, he was battling a bout of Deja vu over showing his ballsac to a friend’s girlfriend…

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Because what grown man doesn’t like showing his genitals.

I don’t believe I actually did this but AMDB decided we should get off the bus- though I think he just mistakenly thought it was our stop. Either way, we got off and walked a couple blocks.

Have you noticed at this point how much attention I’ve paid to ChaCha?

SO the night ends and we all pass out.

When we awake, I wanted to go to the beach, so we got breakfast then went to the beach, listened to tunes, played in the ocean, and went back to the condo by noon to start drinking. Any good day drinking must include corn hole, so that’s what we were obviously playing. After a good couple hours of outdoor festivities, AMDB and I are sufficiently pleased with ourselves and decide to make a bet on the next game of corn hole that we play. The bet is that the losing team has to take one shot of every different alcohol that’s in the house. Nobody knew at that point how much it was. That was part of the fun. We shook on it and the game was on.

I have never played a better game in my life. I was consistently putting bags in the hole and on the board. I was- with respect to  old school NBA Jam- en fuego.

Unfortunately- someone forgot to shut the refrigerator, maybe that’s the reason my partner was acting so cold? He sucked.

And we lost in quadruple overtime.

Into the house we march to accept our punishment and take it like men. The only problem: The cupboards and freezers seemed to be like magicians hats that just kept producing more liquor. Two flavored vodka’s, two tequilas, two rums, a gin, one-fifty-one, and some clown pulled out absinthe.

Welp, see ya tomorrow.

Through some rather impressive negotiating tactics, we managed to successfully argue that the two different kinds of Vodka, tequila, and rum were really the same so we didn’t need to take two shots of each. But still. After drinking beer most of the day, we each decided to split the 6 shots, and fired back three, bam, bam, bam.

This is where someone else should take over telling the story.

Here’s what I remember: Somersaults. Lots of somersaults.

What I don’t remember but have been told since:

I played a game of beer pong in which I dominated- like hit 9 of 10 cups, the one I missed being the last cup.

I also walked up to one of the AMDB’s buddies whom I hadn’t met until then and who’s girlfriend is super butch and asked him all about his sex life with a linebacker.

Upon hearing Katy Perry’s Fireworks started an impromptu underwear dance party- which others obviously joined- just like the music video.

Retreated to the restroom to barf, then returned to the party and bought $80 worth of Papa Johns pizza on my credit card.

Then, and only then, did I acknowledge ChaCha in that I started humping her and saying ‘why don’t you like my foreplay’. Did I mention this was in front of everyone?

I came out of blackout with my head on the floor of the bathroom where the toilet was spotless- I like to clean when I’m drunk apparently. And an almost completely eaten pizza next to me in the box. As I left the bathroom, there was ChaCha sitting on the bed holding my cell phone.

“I went through it” she said.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

“Because I was convinced there was someone else”

“Did you find anyone else?”

“No”

“HA! Well now I don’t feel so bad for blacking out and not paying attention to you.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the last meaningful conversation I had with ChaCha.

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The breakup weekend (part I)

Aren’t you lovelies just LURVING ShyGuy’s story time? I know I am! Today’s story is so ridiculous (not like Phaedra’s RiDICKulous) that it’s a 2-parter, and you really don’t want to miss it!

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IN my first post, I referenced ending my relationship with my on-again-off-again jealous ex girlfriend, ChaCha. I call her that because of her love of tequila, taquitos, and annoyingly asking questions like the day laborers at the Home Depot. “You need help carry? You need install? You need good work?”

ChaCha has a friend who’s boyfriend I have a mancrush on. He’s the alpha male of drinking buddies. AMDB’s birthday is in late July and he had planned a beach weekend on the eastern shore of Maryland. I know, I hesitated too. But ChaCha and I agreed to go months prior, and despite what ChaCha would tell you, I was really excited to go with them. So excited, in fact, that I was actually delayed  breaking up with her because I really wanted to go to this weekend extravaganza. But my conscious got the best of me and I couldn’t make it to that weekend before breaking up with her. I broke up with her around her birthday- an unfortunate coincidence- but one that needed to happen.

Side story- I bought my condo two years ago when we had just started dating seriously. As a housewarming present ChaCha got me a skimpy housewarming present. I know she got me this because we got in a fight not long after I moved in, so she took- whatever housewarming  lingerie she’d bought- back to the lingerie shop and got a refund- which she then spent on a vibrator. So before breaking up with her, I had actually bought her a really nice gift, but instead of stooping to her level and returning it for something only I’d want to use, I simply returned it and got her something smaller- a Starbucks gift card for an enabling amount of espresso and ice coffees.

Anyway, the way ChaCha and I broke up wasn’t particularly hostile (at that point). In fact for the few weeks after the actual break up, we were fairly civil as we both stupidly and naively thought we- of all couples of all time- could make it work as friends immediately post break-up. Stupid. So we agreed to use AMDB’s birthday as a ‘last hurrah’. Which I basically assumed meant I’d have all the ‘benefits’ of having a girlfriend on a vacation, without necessarily any of the responsibilities.

So I did, what many confrontation avoiding-fun loving guys would do in this situation. I drank a lot and acted inappropriately. Friday night we started drinking at 5pm. AMDB taught me this game similar to beer pong, except there’s only one cup per person. Then I taught AMDB a game called Shut Up and Drink Your Beer. Which was basically just an excuse for us to yell at each other in a bromantic way and get each other hammered. There was a lot of hugs.

Around 11pm, six hours of drinking later, we decide to go to this bar/club called Sea-crets. Yes that’s how its spelled. It was the first time I’d ever been to a bar with metal detectors. I was initially sketched out until I was told this place had a dance floor- IN THE OCEAN!! Sober, that sounds like a fun idea that I’d need to check for hepititus first, but drunk I picture MTV Spring break- uncensored.  SOLD, here’s my cover. We walk in and ChaCha, AMDB, AMDB’s girlfriend and I find ourselves alone at the bar, and a shot of tequila happened. A few more shots are had- all tequila for me- before the group decides to leave and we get back on the bus to take us back to the place we’re staying. It’s full of idiot drunks just like us. The girls sit and the guys stand facing them. Then it hits me. Déjà vu up the yin-yang.

I’d had a dream a few weeks prior of this very situation. Everything that I noticed was exactly the same as what was happening in real life. But in my dream, I thought it would be hilarious to look at AMDB’s GF, wip out my scrotum from my pants and say with a straight face, ‘AMDB’s GF, I’m NUTS about you,’ while I get her to gander at my exposed testicles…

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Will he do it?? Read part II tomorrow loves! 

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Profiles.

ShyGuy is back! And we just love it! Start sprucing up your online profiles, ladies…

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As I admitted in my last post, I recently joined match.com. I still think it’s a weird thing to say, as I’m not quite sure the ‘desperate’ stigma has been totally shaken from online dating. I will be the first to tell you, I’m not desperate. I just needed a change of pace. I wasn’t meeting women who were interesting, interested in a relationship, or interested in a relationship with me and this seemed like a tool that could help. Emphasis on could.

I’ve grown increasingly tired, prior to joining, of meeting women in bars. There’s no way to really know if the conversation or connection you feel is a result of the actual connection you share, the alcohol in your system, or elation that after four previous attempts to talk to the attractive women at the bar you finally found one that hasn’t thrown a drink in your face.

I’ve also grown tired of being my friends’ pity fucking set-ups. It was as if my friends either set me up with a friend to say they’ve done their due diligence , or their friend had just gotten out of something and my friends are trying to get her- or me for that matter-  ‘back out there’. In both cases the broad has been unattractive, totally nuts, or just unavailable. While I appreciate their intention and have seen their approach work with other friends, I was ready to take matters into my own hands. James Bond style.

So far, I’ve been on nine first dates. Most of these have been nothing more than drinks at a local watering hole. I cannot say I’ve been terribly lucky or productive thus far. Mostly because deciphering these women’s profiles is just about as impossible as deciphering what a woman really want in person.

According to match.com profiles, every single woman meets the following criteria: They like to travel, they’re laid back and low maintenance, can hang out with the guys, watch sports, throw on a dress or a pair of jeans, never thought they’d be online dating, they like to go out but they also like to stay in and they all have a picture with at least one other girl. Yea, fucking right. If every woman really were like this, there would be no need for online dating.

You like to travel? Wow, pretty sure that every young person ever has wanted to explore the world. Even the fucking Amish people get to go explore the world for a year before going back to build excellent rocking chairs.

You’re laid back and low maintenance? How is it possible that every woman on Match describes themselves as low maintenance. I will not go so far as to say that all women are high maintenance, but I will say that all women are varying degrees of high maintenance. You want to know what makes you low maintenance? Being a lazy dude.

And I’m glad to hear you can hang out with guys! That means we can, in fact, hang out. You know, me being a guy and all.

Sports are great, but do you really like them, or do you like them because we like them?

You like to wear dresses and jeans? Who’d have thought its no longer acceptable to leave the house without wearing clothing. This explains why I get a lot of police attention. Here I always thought it was because I’m a middle class white guy.

Never thought you’d be online dating? You didn’t actually think you’d meet someone in person did you? That’s so two thousand and late.

You like to go out but also like to stay in? Well me too. I like to leave my house from time to time, but I’m not particularly fond of sleeping in the gutter, so I usually do go home.  We have so much in common!

Which one of these five broads in this picture are you? You do remember that we’ve never met before right?

I mean come on ladies. I know the point of these profiles is to make yourselves both attractive to as many men as possible and display some sense of individuality, but come on. It’s as if women got together and thought to themselves, ‘who should we ask for advice about men? I know. Let’s ask other single, desperate, marginally crazy women what is attractive to guys! I’m sure they’ll have some great insight.’ Really? You pick the one friend who all of you women have who are crazy enough to pull a Lisa ‘Left Eye’ Lopes. To jog your memory- she set fire to football star Andre Rison’s sneakers and it somehow (who’d have thought) burned his whole house down. I think literally any man, of any age, preference, or location would give better advice about men than these kinds of women. But for whatever reason, you women just keep going back to that well and pulling up garbage. Literally any living man would have been a better option. Your asexual brother? yup.  Your crazy gay uncle? definitely. The homeless man at Dunkin Doughnuts? Hell yes- but buy the man a coffee first.

So you want some real advice about how to put your profile together. Be Real. Tell us exactly who you are. If you love to dance in your underwear to 80’s hair bands when it rains- that’s an interest. If you love to cook fabulous meals for your friends in 4 inch heels- that’s a hobby. If you love wearing white to play touch football in the rain- that’s an activity. But we can’t know these things unless you tell us.

The same goes for what you’re looking for. If you want a guy who’s tall, dark, and handsome- move to a city where the average height of men is over 5’6”. If you want a guy who knows how to treat a woman, say you want a guy who’s close to his mother. If you want a guy who’s an alpha male, search for men near prisons. If you want a nice boy, be a fucking nice girl.

And for God’s sake. Post recent and accurate pictures. I’ve actually met with two women who looked nothing like their pictures. In both cases, it was because they’d both put on weight. Hey, I get it. You’re self-conscious, but ultimately you’re just wasting your time. There are good guys who love larger women. You’re wasting your time pursuing guys who like fruits and veggies when you need guys who like steak and potatoes. That’s a metaphor.

I walked into a local dive bar to meet a woman. I was early so I wasn’t expecting to see her right away. I literally walked past her three times before she stopped me and said, “Are you Shyguy? I’m Nicole.” She had different color hair, a huge nose ring, a tattooed sleeve, and a few extra around the midsection. Totally different look than her profile portrayed. I stuck it out for a drink, because I felt that was the polite thing to do, thanked her for meeting me, paid for my beer, and walked home. And all I kept thinking was did she think I wouldn’t find out?

I know it’s online dating, but isn’t the point still to meet in person? A novel idea, right? I can see how someone could argue common interests and some degree of chemistry through interactions via a computer screen, but, I’m just curious here, after the third online date, how do you make your move without violating your monitor?

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High fives.

Hey fabu-readers! Remember Shy Guy? Well, thank God, he’s still in our lives because despite the lackluster lives Gizzy and I have been leading lately, he’s been having a little more fun. So we’re bringing him back, and it’s double amaze-balls!

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It’s been awhile since I’ve guest posted for the Tiffanies ladies, and to much my dismay, it’s been some time since I’ve blogged at all since my boss has forbidden me from blogging on my own. As one might find incredibly ironic, working for the federal government, apparently results in the forfeiture of my rights. And here I naively thought my job was intended to protect the laws. That’s for another post.

So you’ll have to forgive me while I shake off some rust.

A lot has changed since my last post. I ended things with my on-again-off-again girlfriend after she accused me of cheating (I wasn’t), went through my phone (twice) for evidence (didn’t find), and falsely accused me of assault (haven’t touched her). Things needed to end. I’ve started looking for new employment- did I mention that I’m basically without liberty? And, I decided to join match.com (this is the second time-the first time was short-lived as I started dating my, now ex, girlfriend shortly after signing up.

While I didn’t particularly take it very seriously the first time I tried it, I did have success getting dates-imagine that. So when I found myself excited to go home and walk around naked after ordering pho and watching old Clint Eastwood flicks for the third straight Friday night, I thought maybe I should do something a little more social.

While I have plenty of stories and lots to discuss about the world of online dating, Lucky has assured me that I can have more than one post- if ya’ll like them. So, I’m going to slow release some of the more hilarious ones, and instead tell you what I’ve found to be the biggest benefit to online dating: Eliminating things I think I might like in a woman, but ultimately find what is completely wrong for me.

The first example. The high five.

This seemingly mundane and friendly bonding gesture is a Pandora’s box of cerebral espionage. Ok, I’ll tell you.

Like most guys, part of what I’m looking for is a balance between a best friend and a sex vixen who also loves sandwiches. I don’t think I’m setting my standards too high, but apparently in a city where the average height of men is 5’6” and women outnumber men almost 3-2, finding a woman who wears heels and enjoys football (notice I didn’t even say watching- there’s all sorts of things for women around football- like drinking to oblivion) somehow makes me the picky one. All the men are shorter than you and there’s more of you than there are of me? Riddle me that.

So the first time I joined the online dating community I decided I wasn’t going to have any rules. I’ve since learned this was a terrible idea. But only after this little gem.

Lindsey, name changed to allow some other poor sap to encounter her and have what will most certainly be hilarity, and I went out for drinks and had a great time. We were flirting and laughing and getting drunk. For a 25 year old guy who hadn’t gotten laid in 5 months, this was about as awesome as an open bar at a wet t-shirt contest. I was enjoying it. So I asked Lindsey out again. We went out again and had another solid date. I remember she wore these blue suede stilettos and a low v-neck top. If you have to ask why I remember that, go fuck yourself.

Then had another and I really thought things were going well. She was cool and easy to talk to. She liked football, big dogs, and fast cars. She sent me emails of Rick Reilly articles (he’s a brilliant sports columnist who’s worked for Sports Illustrated and ESPN). She even suggested we go out and get tickets to a monster truck rally. I was into it.

Unbeknownst to both of us, we joined the same kickball league the next week and ran into each other- drunk- at the bar after the games. Even fucking better. Now I had someone to look forward to getting drunk with on Wednesdays. That night we got really drunk, ended up dancing until after midnight and she came back to my place for relations.

Mid relation- she says she’s nearing the crescendo of the opera- if you catch my drift. Then does something I’ve never experienced before. She throws her hair back- I know I was drunk but I’ll never forget this- and says “Great job, High five”. And puts her hand up and hits mine.

What the fuck.

If any of you have ever seen the first season of Californication, this was my Fucking and Punching moment. The lead character, Hank- played by David Duchovny, unbeknownst to him beds the 17 year old daughter of his soul mates new boyfriend. Hank gets picked up at a book store by Mia, (Madeline Zima) admiring the release of his new book and the camera cuts to their relations. Just before climax, with Mia on top, she hauls off and punches Hank in the face.

Who wants to be punched while enjoying a nice relation? Who wants to high five after doing what men and women have been doing for literally centuries as if it were some sort of reward or motivation? Not this guy. If we’re going to be throwing around high fives everywhere for everything, I’d like to throw out a high five after a good face to crotch relation. How would that make you feel ladies? You just finish oral relations and he goes to give you the exact same gesture he gave his fraternity brother for peeing the bed five nights in a row, or for not puking on his date after an open bar NYE party.

SO where do you draw the line? I’ll tell you where I’ve drawn it. No high fives for girls I’m interested in. Better just to alleviate the situation all together.

Of course, this did lead to a slightly awkward interaction with Lindsey.

Lindsey: That was great. Want to go shotgun a beer?

Shyguy: I don’t think we’re looking for the same things. I think you’re a lot of fun and great to be around, but I don’t really see this progressing past being friends with benefits, and that’s not really what I’m looking for. I’m sorry.

Lindsey: Yea, I think you’re right.

Long pause.

Lindsey: So you want to go shotgun a beer?

Shyguy: Absolutely.

High Five.

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The Real Bloggers of…New Jersey?

I’m sure most of you recall (the most famous reindeer of all) the adventures Gizzy and I had with DDM a little more than a month ago. Thankfully, we haven’t heard from him in awhile, but I figured now would be a better time than ever to stir that pot a little further. Churn baby churnnnnnnnn!

After we had The Fight, DDM (bless his little penis, tool) found it necessary to create a fake identity and bug us some more. The first little jab came in the form of a comment request, saying this:

Jesus how old are you gals? You’ve got to be kidding me with your content. How can you write such garbage and live with yourselves? If you can insult yourselves so much, why don’t you just take a bottle of pills and do woman-kind a favor. Your existence only serves to bring us down. Yuck, show some self esteem and not this fake “we are scum sucking cunts and proud of it” wanna-be funny bullshit you pass off for writing.

And by the way, what’s up with the long left side of the screen format of your blog? How annoying to have to scroll to Japan to read this complete crrrrap!

Don’t quit your day job, or as it may be in your case, the street corner.

Blech!

The comment was from a “Danielle.” Gizzy and I agreed it was pretty suspicious, as the name “Danielle” is very similar to DDM’s name and the complaints were nearly identical. It was less than a week after The Fight and “Danielle” just had an e-mail address, no blog.

Now, I want to set the record straight here. If you don’t like our blog, that’s cool. I’m really fine with it.(I’m not, if you don’t like our blog then fuck you.) I read blogs everyday that I think really suck. But do I comment and tell those people to rot in hell for it? No, I simply move on. That’s the part that I don’t get. So it isn’t that I can’t take criticism, it’s that this blog is for fun, for laughs, for shits and giggles. It’s the ONE place in my career as a writer and an editor (yes, DDM I am paid as an editor and a published writer) where I can let loose and really say what I feel.

And as for the layout of our blog? What is the freaking B.F.D?!! It’s trendy that’s what the b.f.d. is!

Anyway, “Danielle” didn’t get the comment approved, but tried to reply to ShyGuy this:

Don’t let them fool you- they know nothing. They’re a couple of immature NJ girls lacking any kind of life experience or maturity. Don’t waste your time reading this garbage page.

And since theyre so immature they don’t allow anything but praise to be posted BUT- they certainly write back anyone who criticizes them and profanely insults them, I’ll write to you privately and make sure you know this exact message.

Ummm okay wait you psycho asshole, now you’re going to privately message our readers? HA! Get a god damn life you piece of shit. Naturally, I took matters into my own hands to unleash on this fucktard, by e-mail.

To: “Danielle”
From: Lucky
Subject: (no subject)

You hate our blog, yet you read it and then wrote us a comment?

Here’s an idea, Danielle. Go fuck yourself.
Thanks love,

-Lucky

To: Lucky
From: “Danielle”
Subject: (no subject)

As far as that being an idea of yours- it just shows how small your brains are. Are you blonde too? Then at least you’d be living up to a stereotype.

HA HA you’re such an insecure shit I would have been impressed if you actually let the comment through but you’re so small inside you hide from the world in every way. YOU ARE A FAKE! LOL! You are what people make fun of when they attack bloggers. You’re probably a fat bloated mess who can’t get it together living a fantasy life on your blog. That explains why you have no real presence online. YOU ARE HIDING YOU INSECURE SHIT! LOL!

How about this idea? You grow the pair you talk like you have and allow all the comments you get to be posted you fucking coward cunt. Go fuck yourself you immature piece of shit excuse for a woman. It figures you’re a Jersey girl, you all tend to be spoiled brats hiding from the real world over there. You wouldn’t survive a New York minute here in the city.

To: “Danielle”
From: Lucky
Subject: (no subject)

Wow, you are really good at LOL-ing. I’m thrilled you think I’m so fucking hilarious. Listen up you fat bitch, I’m not the one who is hiding—you are! I know your name isn’t “Danielle,” it’s fucking Daniel. You’re a 40-year-old loser with nothing else to do than sit around and e-mail twenty-something white chicks all fucking day. How’s that for fake, fucking asshole?

Looks like you’re upset because no one gives a shit that we called you a name. Your readers don’t care, WordPress doesn’t care, Facebook doesn’t care, and WE don’t care.
Get a fucking life.
PS. Neither of us are from Jersey, so stop acting like you know a damn thing.
To: Lucky
From: “Danielle”
Subject: (no subject)
Wow, I guess I’m not the first one to tell you off and put you in your place huh? So much that you’re paranoid about it huh? He must have gotten to you- or was it me that got to you? What’s this guy’s e mail address so we can share our thoughts about you.

You’re so bent out of shape and insecure- know how I can tell? You call me a fat bitch, but then accuse me of being some guy… you’re not even sure of what you’re saying enough to show some consistency.

And right, you’re not from NJ- sure. That’s you being afraid your cover will be blown. Shyguy is from DC- is that where you’re from? You’d never tell, post or reveal it I’m sure, so you can feel secure being a fraudulent internet hate monger at will. You have no guts whatsoever.

On a personal level honey I pity the guy who falls for your bullshit, but what am I saying- anyone worth while will see the emptiness in you and either trump your fakeness to use you as a fuck toy and throw you away how you deserve or they will run away as fast as they can checking their shoes when they get home because finding you is like stepping in shit for sure.

At second glance you know what’s really sad- that the only people you have posting comments on your blog are either failed bloggers themselves or the never ever real kind of people who only offer fake praise in their desperation for the same in return. HA HA! PATHETIC!
You’re losing this little joust there pea brain, and if I did show you who you’re corresponding with you would shrivel up and die from the insecurity that obviously eats you alive every day – judging by you’re writing at least. Here’s a little fuel for your fire… I’ve modeled before I graduated Columbia Law. And here you are verbally jousting with me under name’s like “Lucky (indicative of a dog’s name maybe) and Gizzy (isn’t that a term for ejaculate?)” LOL!

I’m sorry, but I stopped responding. That little shit was pissing me off waaaaay too much. And clearly, nothing I say will ever get through to this asshole. No, me and Gizzy aren’t from New Jersey (I WISH!) I haven’t even ever been there. And no, we aren’t from DC. And we don’t live there. If we did, I think we’d be hanging out with ThoughtsAppear. And I’d clearly be trying to get it on with ShyGuy. Yep, yep!
And we love our readers. They are not failed bloggers. THEY ARE AWESOME!!!!! THE BEST!!! Which is why “Danielle”/DDM isn’t allowed in on all of our fun. Because he is a loser posing as a model from Columbia Law. What the hell?
Now, this is the part where I tell you what DDM WOULD HAVE DONE, had I not predicted his every next move.  After reading this post he would’ve sent us a comment/email saying how we’re racist drunk bitches blah blah blah and how we need to grow up and LOLZZZZ he should write for us because he’s sooooo cool and a way better writer than our kid’s cat could ever be because he writes about “stuff that matters,” like racism and dedicating websites to his ex gf who saw the light and got the eff out of that relationship.  But now he won’t because he’s so predictable, which is how we knew the fake commenter Danielle was really him.  Not only the name, but also by these KEY words and their punctuation: LOL!, consistency, Jersey, and this phrase: shit excuse for a woman.
Who wants to be in the 2014 class of Gizzy’s School of Law? BOOM.  Eat it DDM.
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Dear L, G, & SG…

I can’t tell you how excited I was to get a ringle on my Blackberry (ugh, that NEVER happens) to find an e-mail with “L & G Advice Column” in the subject line. I was digging for Black Friday deals with Buttons when the message came in, immediately dropped the black velvet blazer I had and read it out loud in the store.

It really is a goodie! Of course, me, Gizzy & ShyGuy offered up our help, but please give this gal some words of wisdom, too!

Hi Girls,

My roommate and I knew each other a few years ago and lost contact when I moved to another city. I had recently broke up with my boyfriend who I was living with and was in desperate need to move out as soon as possible but could not afford to live on my own. I put a little status update on FB and she responded saying she was looking for a roommate as well. I didn’t tell her that my relationship had gone sour at first. We looked for a place and signed a lease and it was then that I mentioned that my boyfriend and I broke up. Things were good at the beginning (probably because I was spending time at home being sad and lonely) but I had broken up with my ex for various reasons, and one was because of my feelings for another guy. I took some time to get over my ex before moving on with the other guy (who is now my current boyfriend). In the past four months I have been spending a great deal of time with my boyfriend, and some of that time is spent at my apartment (my boyfriend still lives at home, saving up to buy a place).
It has become obvious that my roommate is extremely jealous (she is 30 years old, single and works 7 days a week because she has nothing to do on weekends and was bored so she got another job). She began to move all her personal stuff into her bedroom, she even eats her meals in there. I’m rarely home, I get home around 10pm and go right to bed because I have a life, but she has decided to torture herself by imagining that I am home all the time watching tv with my boyfriend in the living room (EXTREMELY FALSE) I can’t even remember the last time I watched tv in the living room, or tv for that matter.
Anyway, she recently asked me if she should be splitting the bills 3 ways because my boyfriend is ALWAYS there and should be paying. She then proceeded to tell me that I have forced her to move into her bedroom and that my boyfriend spends too much time at the apartment and that he can’t stay over during the week anymore, but weekends are fine… (Excuse me???? I didn’t realize I had moved in with my mother!!!!) She now won’t even look at me, deleted my bf from FB and has taken ALL her personal stuff into her room (including bathroom floor mats and hand towels that we were using).
Oh and did I mention she has a dog that has it’s own bedroom and a turtle that lives in our bathtub? Yeah disgusting!!! (And yes we split the rent right in half even though her dog has it’s own room).
So you now know the story (sorry for it being so lengthy), I would love to hear your advice on how to handle my very immature roommate.
Thx 🙂
Dear Ms. Needs-a-new-roommate,

First of all let’s hit the most important issue you raised; she deleted your boyfriend on Facebook? Inexcusable. What.a.wretched.bitch. Sounds like this roommate of yours needs some dick. You want a happy girl, facilitate a happy libido (vagina just sounded too dirty to use there).
It’s actually funny this is the first question I’ve assisted in answering for Lucky and Gizzy, because I’m going through a similarly awkward rainforest with my roommate. Like you, my roommate sits in her room whenever she’s at our place. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hang out. Doesn’t know the sweet sweet bliss for drowning her sorrows with my good friend and confidant Jose Cuervo. Last night, as a matter of fact, she came to me saying ‘I’m just not happy here’ because she feels like my home isn’t really her home and how she’s been disappointed at how things with our living arrangement have developed. Well no shit it doesn’t feel like your home, its my fucking home. I pay the mortgage. I bought the furniture, I painted the amateur shit that hangs on the wall. It’s not supposed to feel like your place, it isn’t. Of course I didn’t say this to her because I want to keep her rent money coming.
Her second point, of being disappointed, seems most similar to the situation you’re dealing with. I would bet that when you two moved in together, this broad had built up expectations that you two would become best friend and would sit around every night watching Will & Grace and braid one another’s hair. I bet when you told her you’d recently broken up with your bro-vice, if she hadn’t already put two-and-two together, her expectations of you two being close became even higher. My roommate expected me to be her fucking tour guide. Was I down for that? Ha. I bought her a five dollar metro card and said, ‘It’s a great big world out there. Give it your best try there Sport’.
Now I’m not saying you should be best friends with your roommate, but making her feel welcome around you (and your boyfriend if he’s around) would probably go a long way. You said it yourself; she’s lonely. So going a reasonable distance to reach out to her might do a world of good until she gets the sand out of her glory-hole. If that doesn’t work, I stand by my initial comment that she just needs some dick. Surely you have a friend, or your boo has a friend, who’d fuck her. Surely, with enough alcohol you can facilitate some sort of bonestorm on her behalf. Really? A turtle in the bathtub? Is his name Michelangelo and does he love Pizza? Cause those guys were my favorite grown up.
Sincerely,
Shyguy

I honestly don’t check our email that often so I heard about this story a few hours after the fact when I met up with Lucky and Buttons for dinner.  I’m not kidding you, my jaw dropped when they told me the dog had it’s own room and then my hands went straight to cover my face when they told me about the turtle.  Yeah I was laughing, but it was an in shock kind of laughter.  First, I need to say props to you girlfriend for not “accidently” killing this broad off in your sleep.  Because I would have, or found horrible things to do to her ie: pickles under her bed, holla Snooks.
Anyway, I’ll have to back ShyGuy up in saying you should definitely try and make an effort to spend some time with her and see if that eases the tension.  I don’t know that I’d invite the bf along just yet though.  Maybe suggest doing a roommate dinner once a week or every other week so she feels like she has some “you” time.  I would also ask her what her problem is with your boyfriend, I doubt he snuck in her room and fondled her booberrys while you were asleep, so she really should have no reason to hate him.  But it does sound like she is super jealous of the time you two spend together, and it’s probably definitely mostly because she has no one and no life.  You know what they say, misery loves company.  If all else fails revert to the Bible (aka Mean Girls) and say, “Sorry you’re like IN LOVE WITH ME!” And then make the dog get a damn job and pay some rent!
God speed,
Gizzy

Dear One Less Lonely Girl,
Wow! I love love love that you asked us this question, because I’ve had my fair share of horrid roommates in my day. But on the other hand, I hate that this is your actual life.
I will agree with Shy Guy on most of his accounts, except the Jose Cuervo thing (that’s like the Malibu of tequilas). I think inviting the roomie out one night with the boyfriend (sorry G) will go a long way—chances are, she will say no because she has to work, but then the problem becomes hers and not yours.
On the other hand, maybe setting aside one night for a ladies evening would help, too as much as I hate this idea. Having some wine, getting sloppy drunk and talking things out might work. If neither of these ideas do the trick, it’s time to get blunt and tell her what you think—that you don’t understand her problem with your boyfriend or why she is neglecting the rooms your share.
Maybe it’s time for you guys to relay the ground rules. If that’s the case, step up and tell her the truth—you aren’t splitting the rent three ways unless the dog and turty are included.
xoxo,
Lucky
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There are only six Pringles in a 100-calorie pack.

Which would explain why I’m completely ravenous right now, and could probably eat my fist (if it was covered in peanut butter). I mean shit, I try to eat a little healthy for lunch and I get six fucking Pringles. Like that’s going to hold me over for two days, ugh.

If you haven’t already guessed it, I’ve reached an entirely new level of Lame. With a capital L. My freelance gigs have been riding my ass—not in the good way—so whenever I have a damn second to myself I just want to drink, or sleep, or both simultaneously. My dad is coming in town today for a weekend visit, so I’ve spent the last week cleaning my apartment with a toothbrush.

My dad is a complete neat freak, and he WILL find something wrong, I just know it. The last time he came to visit, he said my microwave was too dirty on the inside and the drip pans on my stovetop needed to be cleaned. So I washed every linen, cloth, carpet, hell I even shoved my couch into the washing machine, causing it to overflow, which got my carpets wet. I vacuumed every nook and cranny, and even baked cupcakes and arranged fresh flowers in a vase on my dining room table.

Being Martha Stewart is really hard work.

And that’s the story of my life. No guys to speak of, no sex, not even a nun at the gas station. Wait…I take that back:

Now that I really look at it, to you, it just looks like a man in a tuxedo vest. But I assure you, it’s a nun. And I’m not sure why I thought it was funny at 7:30 this morning. Probably because I’ve never seen a real nun before, nor do I ever want to. And I didn’t know nuns pumped gas? I don’t know.

Oh yeah, and I have a band. We call ourselves Jack Whitley. Our debut album will be released on iTunes before Christmas. Look for it, it’s called “In It Because They Excel.”

I know you’re thinking, Lucky, you’ve never said much about music and you said in the 100 fun facts that you only know one song on the guitar. That’s correct, kids. But if Kim Zolsiack has taught me anything it’s that you can make a career just knowing one song. And you don’t really even have to know it.

Here is the album cover:

Okay, okay, this joke has gone on long enough. I’m really just a huge faggot and saw this little game on Facebook when I was bored at work yesterday. Here are the rules:

1 – Go to “wikipedia.” Hit “random”
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 – Go to “Random quotations”
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 – Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 – Use photoshop or similar to put it all together. Preferably in a square format layout, like a nice old-timey vinyl album cover.

4,5 – Use the first font you find on your computer of the first letter in your name.

Cool, huh? It’s so fun, I’ll do one for Gizzy, too:

So, according to this, Gizzy is a religious singer searching for the meaning of life. I think we both know what Gizzy and I were sent here to do—to be fucking hilarious. CHECK!

I was just having a conversation with ShyGuy, as he was saying his boss just told everyone in his office she was pregnant. And I told him how disgusting I thought it was.

You see, last week, we were having a staff meeting, when someone was like “Michelle! Mchelle! Tell everyone!”

So Michelle stands up and is like, “Stewart and I are expecting…in April…it’s a girl.”

And everyone clapped and cheered and ripped shots of tequila rose, while I was trying to crunch through the titanium ball on my necklace. I hate it when people say they are “expecting.” Expecting what? Company? Expecting a hurricane? Expecting a human being to come shooting out of your lady bits?

SICK.

I also realized I hate it when people say they are “trying.” As in trying to have kids. Like, just tell me when the baby shower is, because I don’t want to picture you and your husband’s beer belly all floppin around, k?

ShyGuy seemed to think I was complete cray cray for thinking this way, but I know there’s got to be other people who feel me on this one. Amd speaking of ShyGuy, he’s got a dating issue he wanted to mention to you guys, for some advice, but was afraid to…so tell him how much you want to hear it.

Until next time…Kelsey Grammar.

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