Tag Archives: fuck off

Why I killed my Tomagotchi.

Last week, Gizzy was all excited because she downloaded the Tomagotchi L.i.f.e app on her phone.

She said it was just like the real thing, like the ones we had in middle school.

A few days later, I downloaded the app. It was free, unlike the Tomagotchis I’d seen at the store, which were at least $15.

Just like the real thing, it was egg-shaped and when it was born it was a little blob bouncing around on the screen that needed to be fed, played with, and cleaned after taking a dump.

At first, this was fun. But then I noticed that it was constantly “calling” me… like every 5-10 minutes. Now, I know I don’t really have a life, but AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT.

However, I didn’t want it to die, so I kept at it. Feeding and cleaning were easy tasks, although… the playing part?

I started to see just how much my lil Kumatachi was. He would cry and yell if he lost the game! Little fucker.

Over the weekend, I wasn’t feeling well, so I spent many, many hours in bed sleeping under the spell of off-brand theraflu.

When I awoke to find about 25 requests from the little trout sniffer, I opened the app and saw the angel.

He was dead.

And I really wasn’t sad about it. Because he was annoying. And also? Kind of ugly.

I deleted the app.

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BEX got married.

I waited a few days to share this news with you all; only telling my very close friends and family, because I have been dealing with a mix of emotions surrounding BEX’s wedding, which happened on Saturday.

I found out about the wedding last Wednesday. For some reason, I wandered over to BEX’s Facebook page, and saw a post on his page about “7 more days ’till the wedding!”

Huh?

Considering I had just seen him a month prior and he mentioned nothing about a bride-to-be, and considering about 14 months ago he was asking me to sleep with him, I thought no way he was about to get married.

So I Googled his name along with “wedding,” and sure enough, up came a few wedding registries and a site on The Knot, complete with a picture of him and his fiancee. The site was created on March 5, 2012, less than 2 months after I told BEX to get out of my life.

My heart thumped and I swear my jaw traveled through two floors to hit the ground beneath me with a THUD.

It’s not the first time I’ve found out my ex was getting married. In fact, all of my exes are married. To say the least, it’s never fun news to get. However, in this case, it was a little different.

For starters, it was pretty obvious to me that he was cheating on me with this girl and vis versa. I’m not a genius, but I think it’s safe to say that after we had a conversation on January 9, 2012, he didn’t meet someone the next day and propose before March 5.

The real sting for me was recalling numerous conversations we’d had about getting married—he insisted that getting married was never a plan of his, and this always bothered me because I did (and do) want to be married. Now, obviously, that was just one of his many lies to me, because he did want to get married. And now he actually is married.

And yes, I know. He’s an ass, he’s the worst, he’s a douche, I deserve better. But I’m not sure, even as an award-winning editor, that any words I write can describe what it feels like to know that a person who betrayed you, did so to such a degree that there was a ring in his pocket the last time you slept together. It is sickening.

Upon receiving the news, I turned to the two women in my life who have supported me throughout my entire relationship and breakup with BEX: Gizzy and my mom. I was, and am, thankful for them lifting me out of the doldrums.

That day, on Gchat, BEX came online and I decided to send him a message asking him about the wedding.

ME: Getting married Saturday?

BEX: I am.

ME: I am shocked.

BEX: I guess I am too… but I’m excited.

ME: The shocking part is the math. It doesn’t add up. You slept with her and I at the same time?

BEX: No. It was a very quick process. We hadn’t been together in over 3 years.

And that was the end of that conversation. Sure, part of me wanted to tell him all of the times I knew there was overlap in the relationship he was having with her and the one he was having with me. But the majority of me knew that at this point, nothing I could say would make him understand, and really, I’m at a good place in my life.

What BEX didn’t realize is that a picture of him and his bride, proves him completely wrong. In July 2011, I flew across the country to see Gizzy for my birthday. Ironically, BEX flew there too. He told me he was going with his sister and her husband. But there is a picture on Facebook of him and his then girlfriend at the famous baseball stadium in that city. Behind them, is the date on the jumbo screen: July 2, 2011.

On that same date, BEX called me and sang me Happy Birthday and tried to meet up with me several times in the city. Little did I know that his girlfriend was sitting right beside him the entire time. We slept together the following week.

In a way, finding this out answers alot of my questions. It explains why BEX was never around, why he treated me like shit, and why he hid me from his friends and family. But it doesn’t do much for my trust issues.

I knew BEX was fooling around on me. But I didn’t know he was living a completely double life without my knowledge.

Saturday, I spent the day drinking, and for the first time, I cried about BEX’s wedding. I never wanted to waste more time on him, but I know I am still dealing with the hurt he left for me.

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Protected: Hey Gizzy, meant to tell you…

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Go away.

Friday night, I participated in the usual activities of drinking until I am stupid. After drinking a few margaritas, Marcy and I, along with the usual guys headed to the bar.

I was thinking, “OH, I’ll just have a few beers, stumble home, hit the sack, and be up early enough to go to the gym tomorrow morning…”

Yeah… no.

I really did only have a few beers, but I also had a few shots… I remember swallowing a red snapper, a soco/lime (one of my favorites), and a jager bomb. Oy.

Naturally, mid drink-fest-dance-off, Joel decides, once again, to talk about “us.”

Let me refresh your memory. Me and Joel is not a thing. Ever since I’ve seen how much of a drama-starter he is, that was just the icing on the cake for me—hell no. Yet, every time we drink together “us” comes up in conversation.

Yeah dude, I get it. You don’t want to be with me. You wish you did. And hey, I don’t want to be with you either, so why are we talking about this again?

So around 1:30, we all head to Marcy’s, the typical plan, because even though we’ve all been drinking since 6 pm, we just can’t seem to stop. This is where things with Joel always get stupid. Because he tells me and tells me just how much he doesn’t want to be with me, and then we get in the same bed together and shit happens.

To avoid this, as soon as I cracked open my beer I told Marcy I was sleeping in her bed, even if she didn’t like it. And that is what I did.

Joel even found it necessary to come into Marcy’s room and kiss me (on the forehead) goodnight.

Whatever.

Saturday was non-eventful, although I didn’t wake up in time to go to the gym, I hit the showers and started drinking again, because I have a serious problem. I took a 3 -hour nap and rolled out of bed in time to see the 9 pm showing of Safe Haven (SO GOOD). It was just me and a box of Butterfinger Minis in a sea of couples. But it’s whatevs.

Sunday, I was really just trying to rest and hydrate and relax because this week (has been and) will be, a little bitch. However, I still wanted to go to the open mic night, if anything to get out of the house. So I did. And I read a poem. And the music was great. And I danced. And sang.

And then, I heard a familiar voice right behind my neck.

The creepy, crazy, stalker, texter, rapper.

I hadn’t seen him in weeks. I quickly gathered my belongings, held them close to me, and waited for the last performer to finish. I dropped my tip money into the jar and looked toward the only way out—the front door. And there he was. Standing. Waiting.

He turned his back and I made my move, walking briskly. And as soon as I got to the door, he turned and waved. I said hello. Then he asked, “How was your V-Day?”

Seriously?

What did he want me to say? That it was horrible and I sat around and cried and thought about killing myself and then I realized that I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake and he was the one I was missing and would he like to go out for coffee and work things out because I can’t, I just can’t, go on without him?

Instead, I told him it was wonderful, and that I somehow managed to get a boyfriend, get engaged, married, and pregnant on the same day.

So yeah.

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The end.

Eight years ago, I fell for my best friend. His name was Adam, we’d been friends for years. We both talked about the feelings that were coming between the two of us—should we pursue them?

One summer night, I went to his parents’ home, where he was alone. It was late, I had just ended my shift at the ice cream shop, and he had made me dinner: steak kabobs that looked so perfect, I thought they were store-bought.

When I crawled into his bed that night, I felt him inch closer, coming in for what would be our first kiss.

“Are you sure?” I asked him. “Once we kiss, there’s no turning back.”

After that night, we were together, inseparable, and I quickly fell in love for the first time. However, at the end of the summer, I had to go back to school, putting nearly 15 hours between us. I booked a flight to visit him in early October when I had some time off from class.

We spent four days together, getting a taste of what it would be like if we lived in the same city. When I woke up the morning I was flying back, I was miserable. I fought the tears for hours. I didn’t want to say goodbye.

But we parted ways, and although I talked to him a few times after I landed, that was the last time I ever saw him. Soon, he stopped answering my calls, stopped replying to my text messages, and eventually started posting pictures of him with another girl (who he’s now married to) on Facebook.

I had lost my love, my best friend, and above it all, I didn’t get that call. To him, I didn’t deserve closure, an explanation. I kept a journal during those days, days when getting out of bed was a real challenge—sharing a bedroom in a sorority house was complete misery.

My mom told me, “Go 7 days without contacting him.” So I did. I wrote in my journal. I waited. But when the 7 days were over, and I hadn’t heard from him, I didn’t know what to do.

In the years following, I battled with a severe fear of abandonment. The guy I dated after him really paid for it—if I didn’t hear from him in a few hours, I was convinced he was leaving me.

But then! Then I met a guy who I was head over heels for—I even brought him home to meet my parents. We drove across the country, putting us back in town late one Sunday night. When I watched him go back to his house that night, I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He ignored me for weeks and it was over.

Since then, I’ve tried to combat my fear as much as possible, chalking it up to guys just being immature cowards.  I learned this weekend that it has nothing to do with age.

All last week, I thought Michael was in his “Fortress of Solitude,” sad over losing his girlfriend, even saying this:

Essentially, he is sitting on his couch with his boys [Weezy F. Baby and Hermes, his dogs], drinking beer and eating red velvet cake batter frozen yogurt by the pound. He may or may not be throwing darts at old pictures.

So I did as I was told, and I waited. I left him alone for 4 days, until Saturday evening when I sent him a text just checking in on him. And then 4 hours later, I didn’t get a reply. And then I logged onto Facebook to see he uploaded a new, cute picture of the two of them.

So no, he wasn’t sitting around sad and depressed. He was actually patching things up with his girlfriend, and how do I feel about that? I think it’s great. Because relationships are tough, and if anyone can find true love, then I’ll be first in line to cheer it on!

But we had developed a friendship. We didn’t kiss or have sex, I did nothing wrong, and yet somehow I don’t deserve a word? How much courage would it really have taken him to send me a text saying that if it was going to work with his girlfriend, I couldn’t be in the picture? Sounds pretty fucking easy to me.

So I sent him another text: “As my friend, you could have just told me instead of ignoring me all week and having me worry.”

Of course that got no attention either, which is typical.

Dating/Friendships/Relationships-57, Lucky-0

This is why my counselor asks me how I have hope. I’m beginning to ask myself the same thing, because really, how often does life, or god, or the higher powers, or Katy Perry, need to shove it in my face that I don’t get to have it?

For once in my life, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, I’m feeling the words of an eliminated bachelorette. Skip to 1:29

“I just don’t want to be told forever, how great I am.”

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The trouble with boys is… {part 2}

Like a bestselling novel, that little editor’s note sure put a decent twist on things with Brandon, didn’t it?

How do these things happen? Exhibit A. 

ME: Hey there, what’s up?

B: I’m sorta nervous to have a date tomorrow

ME: Why nervous?

B: Well it doesn’t happen very often for starters.

…And then I stopped responding because I was a perfect mix of jealous, pissed, sad, and needed to stomp up my office stairs before I pulled out one of my classic crazy moves (usually a passive aggressive text message).

Reasons why I was upset:

  • There was no reason to tell me about the date (unless he was looking for an easy way out)
  • How am/was I supposed to react to that?
  • When I ask, “Why nervous?” the correct response would be something along the lines of, “Don’t want to make you upset.”
  • I cannot/will not listen to someone I slept with a mere month ago complain about a lack of dates

I wanted so badly to just be cool and continue the conversation and act like it didn’t bother me. But it did and it does.

I get it, we are not together. He can absolutely go on dates, as can I. But I wouldn’t ever tell him about a date unless it was on the verge of getting serious—I would never say it in passing, because I care(d) about his feelings.

So, going on the date was one thing, telling me about it with intentions to hurt me/make me jealous is something else entirely. Both mean. Both shitty.

Moving on.

Webber did something equally asshole-ish and great all at once.

Out of sheer curiosity, I wandered over to his Twitter page only to witness a rather long conversation between him and one miss @Shasha42069 (handles have been changed to protect the slutty):

Webber: where ya at gurl I’m waiting for my date

Sasha: I’m back… I been back!

Webber: Oh well damn why didn’t you say anything

Sasha: because your supposed to know these things

Webber: my fault

Sasha: It’s ok, I’ll give you a pass this time

Webber: You are too kind. So you gonna hit me up so we can do this

…And it continues from there where they pick out a place to eat, etc. Now, I’m certainly NOT jealous here. However, I don’t appreciate getting constant texts from a guy who is obviously (and publicly) asking out other women. I get it—the more you ask out, the better your return.

I’m not interested in statistics.

So when he texted me the other night, at 10 p.m. “How was your day?” I happily did not reply and continued drooling over Nev Schulman (#Catfish).

Now, I’m actually hoping he texts me again, just so I can say this:

What, your date with @Sasha42069 didn’t work out?? 

Damn, life is good.

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How to get [a date with] Lucky.

phone-clip-art-3I’m sick of dealing with blockheads, so I’ve taken it upon myself to offer up some advice.

1. Don’t be a loser/crazy ass/psycho. I just cannot deal. If you’re trying to get with me, you need to check yo-self before you wreck yo-self.

2. Stop looking at my ass. Yeah, I know, it’s freakin’ amazing. And you know what? Everyone knows that. No, seriously, I’ve heard that just about every day since I was a freshman on a dance team in hot pants. I got it from my mom. Get over it.

[Your mind]

“Damn, guh dat ass is too fat.”

“OMIGOD, REALLY?!?!! Never heard that line, look how clever you are, LET’S BANG. NOW.”

[The reality]

“Damn, guh dat ass is too fat.”

“Thanks… die.”

3. Learn social norms. [see tip #1] Sending me texts that don’t warrant a response do not warrant another fucking text, that in return does not warrant another fucking response. Sending me texts that are dumb do not warrant a response.

You: About to eat lunch.

Me:

You: You still wanna go skating?

Me:

You: I guess not, lol.

Me:

4. Get to the point. I don’t text just to text. I have a life. I am not sitting around waiting for you. I don’t particularly care how your day went or what you’re up to, so figure out why the fuck you are texting me at 9:30 p.m. when I’m trying to watch Buckwild.

[9:44 p.m.]

 You: Writing poetry tonight?

Me: Nope.

5. Make a plan. As mentioned in tip #4, I have a life and am not, nor will I ever, be sitting around waiting for you. Want to see me? Then make a fucking agenda. That involves choosing a time, place, and travel arrangements for dinner and asking me if said plans fit into my schedule.

6. Grow a pair. When it’s time to present me with The Plan, pick up the phone and call me maybe. Or hell, maybe when you see me, you could ask me in person.

7. Get creative. I am almost 28 years old. This is year 12 of dating. I’ve kissed nearly 100 guys, slept with a number that’s not yours to know. I’ve heard every line there is. I’ve dated every asshole that has walked this earth. I know all of the games. So pull something new out of your ass.

You: What you doin’

Me: Watching a movie.

You: Oh, you lonely, I should probably come over.

Me: Nope, not lonely.

You: Yeah, you are. I know you.

Me:

You: Maybe not.

8. Be better than me. I am completely independent. I work 40 hours a week as an editor, another 20 as a freelance writer and blogger. Some weeks, I work extra as a teacher. Other weeks, I volunteer. I am also amazing at kickball, cooking, and being funny. I can drink you under the table. I am not going to be impressed that you know how to tie your fucking shoes. Get a hobby.

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It’s hottie time.

Well my year is off to a great start… kind of.

I went to Craig’s house for NYE, it was very low-key, but very awesome. Craig and Marcy had declared it a “sausage fest” meaning, every dish we ate included sausage—pork sausage meatballs in the pasta sauce, deer sausage for snacking, and spicy sausage in the queso dip. So, we ate loads of sausage, and drank several (5) bottles of bubbly.

We then listened to super old country music until 2 am because we are cowboys.

I slept until noon and woke up to a glorious new day—Craig said it was his tradition to get wasted on New Year’s Day, because what else are you going to do? So we started in on mimosas and homemade hashbrowns (capped, smothered, with jalapenos and sausage, for my Waffle House-loving readers out there).

We then sat outside, under a propane heater of course, listening to music and getting wasted. I didn’t leave until almost 10 p.m., after I drunkenly sent a Happy New Year’s text to the bachelor, and he never replied.

Horse. Shit.

Anyway, do we all know what starts Monday night??? That’s right, THE (FUCKING) BACHELOR.

So, join me in the usual Twitter bashfest, because this is going to be GOOD (@Cocktailsattiff). It’s Emily’s kind-of-ex, Sean, who I don’t particularly find attractive, but nonetheless he seems nice. Ha!

I am pretty excited. Because I have no life and watching The Bachelor is the closest thing I have to a boyfriend.

Anyway.

Being back at work royally sucks—the only thing getting me through is my latest Justin Bieber music purchase.

Like I said, no life. Here’s to 2013!

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I’ve been here before.

Well hello there!

I am sitting at my desk, just finished a deadline (with 5 minutes) to spare, while watching a little daytime TV and enjoying the scent of a brand new orange-cranberry candle.

I actually can’t really smell it. Yeah, because I’ve had bronchitis since Saturday. Today is day 2 without a fever, but I still just want to sleep. But I can’t… I still have 2 more deadlines.

And yes, I know, this post should be about my awesome Christmas and all the presents I got…but it’s going to have to wait because I’ve got more pressing matters on my mind.

Remember Webber?

Well yes, he asked me on a date like a week ago. It was a pretty half-assed attempt at asking: he asked via text, saying he wanted to go skating. Sounds sweet? Yeah, until then he suggested that after skating, I make him dinner and we watch a movie at my place.

I told him I didn’t cook for guys on first dates. He persisted and I just never said anything else about it. Truthfully, I hoped this would all just get shoved under the rug. But nothing ever works in my favor now, does it?

Yesterday he sent me a text asking if we were still on for today. I asked him what time? He said he was free all day. I didn’t reply.

Instead, I texted a guy friend saying I was freaking out. I thought it was rude of him to expect me to cook (and clearly clean my house) for a first date. I think a first date should be very little stress for the girl; she should just have to show up.

My friend was no help, saying “Of course he wants you to cook for him. He follows you on Twitter”—regarding the many pictures of my cooking results. Still? That shouldn’t be a first date.

Am I crazy?

What happened to asking a girl out for a simple date? A movie? Coffee?

I am just finding myself right back in my exact same spot and all I want to do is hide.

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Still stuck.

You probably thought since you hadn’t heard about the crazy guy, that he was out of the picture after I ignored his 32 text messages.

Oh, no. I don’t get off that easy.

Last Sunday, I went to the open mic determined not to let this one guy ruin my weekly night for myself. Upon arrival, I didn’t see him, and plopped down on a couch next to a few girls I’d met. I read my poem, and about halfway through the night, he shows up.

He found me, standing beside the couch asking me a million questions, which I answered in single word sentences. When I left, he asked me, “What are you about to get into?” I said, “My bed” and got to my car. When I got home, he sent me a text: “Hey, you never told me what you thought about my album?”

I ignored that, and went on with my week. He sent me another text Saturday about some radio interview he did. I didn’t reply.

Sunday, I went to the open mic, he was there, and when I went up to give my poem, he recorded it, and took several pictures. He tried to talk to me several points in the night, asking me what I’d been up to, what was I doing for New Year’s? I was short, and went back to my seat.

When it was his turn to get on the mic, he said the poem was about a recent disappointment.

You can probably guess what happened next.

He told everyone his side of the story—that he’s a nice guy, tired of getting screwed over, this girl says she isn’t ready, wants nothing serious, is he just a year too late to date?

Ugh. I was mortified.

I left at the end of the night, and came home to a few texts from him, of course:

Hey. I dunno what actions I partook against you to block me on FB, that sucks enough but every time I see you, you’re very COLD and standoffish. I guess you don’t want anything to do with me. That’s cool. *shrug smh. The last part of my poem was kinda about you. Thanks for the added inspiration Lucky. Godspeed.

REALLY?!?! First of all, I blocked him from Facebook weeks ago, even before the 32 message bullshit because he would like and comment and tag me in everything and it was pissing me off. Second of all, BRO, you sent me 32 fucking text messages in a single night!

Like no, I don’t purposely love being COLD and STANDOFFISH to people, but obviously I’m dealing with someone who can’t take a hint, and then when I’m honest, they can’t even handle that.

About 5 minutes after he sent the previous text, I get this:

It’s like stuff changed after Thanksgiving for no reason. Sad. (u_u)

I don’t know what that little parenthesis shit is, but I’m hunkering down for what could be another long string of texts…

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