Tag Archives: jesus belt

A {text} conversation with JBelt.

JBelt (5:35 pm): Drinking? Tomorrow? Or perhaps bare-knuckle punching? I’m going to fencing tonight.

Lucky (9:40 pm): I’m gonna have to witness some fencing to appreciate it more.

(10:36 pm): Just got done. You could come by Thursday late, if you really want to see some.

(12:28 am): A practice or a real duel (match)? I’m gonna need to Google.

(12:33 am): Yeah…we don’t really fight duels anymore, Lucky. In fact, it’s been illegal for almost 200 years. Practice from 7 to 8:30 or so, open fencing until ten…Bouts. They’re called bouts. We should YouTube some so you know what you’re looking at. The rules are complex, so it can be tough on spectators. That’s why you don’t see much fan merch.

(12:38 am): Well I didn’t think you were going to slice someone’s face off or anything. Rule #1: Don’t call it a duel. Sheesh!

(12:39 am): Tee hee. I suppose I took advantage of you a little, but it was irresistible. I will make it up to you with a beer and YouTube.

(12:41 am): I swear I’m not an idiot. But I am a natural blonde. Shit happens!

(12:41 am): I don’t think you’re an idiot at all. Not one bit.

(12:47 am): About how many people come to the practices?

(12:47 am): Maybe 12-15. Less if it’s hot outside.

(12:48 am): That’s not too bad.

(12:50 am): Too bad? What do you mean? And, why are you still up?

(12:51 am): It’s more people than I expected it what I meant. Yet not a ton of people. Still up because the boxing gets my mind kind of wired.

(12:52 am): I know exactly what you mean.

(12:53 am): My body is dead. But I notice I’m usually pretty energetic afterward. And sometimes I’m completely pissed off. Really pissed.

(12:54 am): Pissed off? It’s supposed to be cathartic.

(12:55 am): Yeah…when I’m punching the bag I think about shit that pisses me off. And I guess it lingers.

(12:56 am): Fair enough. I boxed in the Navy I get the same stuff, the endorphins and adrenaline, from fencing, too. Tons of energy. Sometimes the wrong kind of energy.

(12:57 am): Wrong kind of energy?

(12:58 am): The cold shower kind. Or, just fast-mind insomnia—too much to recall, nothing to do with it, no rest but hours of lying awake.

(12:59 am): I gotcha. Is that why you’re up?

(1:00 am): Indeed. Melatonin. Soon.

(1:01 am): I will drift soon enough. I wish it was still raining out.

(1:02 am): Why?

(1:02 am): I love the sound.

(1:05 am): I like the thunder. The rain doesn’t really show up for me here. Can’t hear it.

(1:07 am): Really? And you have an actual roof. I have an apt above mine.

(1:18 am): Not much, anyway. Tell me not to start a movie. Tell me to eat sleepy pills and go to bed.

(1:19 am): Time for bed, Dave. No movies!

(1:22 am): I’m all awake and stuff. I feel pent up. I might have an endorphin allergy.

(1:23 am): Sounds like you’ve succumbed.

(1:23 am): I’m still here.

(1:24 am): Has your boxing rage worn off?

(1:25 am): I wasn’t too pissed off today actually. In my class yesterday this dude next to me was trying to hit on me the whole time. That REALLY pissed me off.

(1:26 am): Did you whip his ass?

(1:28 am): When it came time for a little partner work he immediately claimed me. I wanted to punch him in his beer gut.

(1:29 am): But didn’t?

(1:31 am): No. We were doing situps passing a medicine ball back and forth. The best I could do was aim for his face with the 13 ponder. See? Now I’m getting pissed.

(1:33 am): Excellent.

(1:34 am): I went on a few nightmare dates a little while ago and I suppose the subject of dating in general pisses me off.

(1:35 am): I’m not counted on the “nightmare” list, am I? How bad were they?

(1:36 am): No this was just a week ago. One guy still had a gf, so it was interesting when he flipped his shit thinking she found out. The other I didn’t know was a date. It was a friend of mine who I thought we were going to a movie. Instead he confessed to liking me and tried to kiss me.

(1:37 am): Poor baby. That’s pretty rugged. The second an old friend?

(1:38 am): We’d known each other for 3 years, and really, I’m not attracted to him at all. So it was really awkward and I was really caught off guard, although when it comes to dating he’s so forward and cocky it was kind of scary. He was saying all kinds of weird shit.

(1:42 am): Shitfire. What sort of weird shit? You seem fairly resistant to that to me.

(1:43 am): He moved out of state, and we really hadn’t kept in touch but he had to do some stuff here so we made plans. I thought it was innocent so I was pretty excited to catch up. He said “when we worked together I wanted to ask you out” so I thought it was past tense. Then he tried to hold my hand.

(1:43 am): Oh for gods sake. That doesn’t sound that bad.

(1:44 am): After the movie he was saying stuff like “are you going to give me a reason to come back more often” what the fuck?! He also also asked me if I ever slept naked. What. The. Fuck.

(1:44 am): Okay. That’s pretty fucked. Creeper.

(1:47 am): How on earth did I not weird you out? That’s still surprising to me.

(1:50 am): I suppose to someone who actually liked him that stuff wouldn’t be weird. So I guess if you did anything weird maybe I overlooked it. But I don’t recall it.

(1:52 am): I didn’t DO anything weird, I just AM a little weird.

(1:54 am): Well you didn’t say anything scary. Here’s the bottom line. If I don’t want to eventually fuck the guy, it won’t work. Sounds slutty. But it’s true.

(1:56 am): I take that as a premium compliment. And slutty is an antiquated term.

(1:58 am): I just figure you have to have something physically plus the chemistry…or else every little quirk is going to be annoying. But, I’m no dating expert.

(2:04 am): I am also a novice. Of sorts. That’s probably not the right word at all, but I think you know what I mean.

(2:05 am): Yeah. I went through a breakup after three years last summer. Since then, dating is just different. And often, it’s a hassle.

(2:08 am): I’ve had several of the long ones like that. It changes things, a bit. Harder to take things seriously, or to risk much at all.

(2:09 am): Exactly. Did you take your sleepy pills yet or you went against what I said and are watching a movie?

(2:10 am): And by the way, I’m of course attracted to you, too. I can’t believe I had any self control with you at all. You are quite charming, and plenty hot to boot.

(2:10 am): Niether. In bed, mulling. Not the regular kind of sleepy yet. You about to cash in?

(2:12 am): No, I just didn’t want to bore you with my embarrassing dating stories any longer.

(2:12 am): Not at all! You’re fine.

(2:13 am): Thank you for the compliments. I won’t buy that I’m charming. Hot? Okay. Charming? Hrmmm…

(2:13 am) You are plenty charming. I’m rarely attracted to blondes or busts…as odd as that sounds. You are hot in a different way than that. You are hot as a writer, and you have good locomotion. In a variety of situations.

(2:15 am): I felt like I scared you off by saying I had a crush on you and I definitely was not trying to jump into anything.

(2:18 am) I know. But the reality was, any commitment at all would’ve been too much. I know you, and I like you—quite a bit. And I would, naturally, love to fuck. But I don’t want to be that guy…I knew I wasn’t ready for anything at all.

(2:20 am) You weren’t, and aren’t, that guy. I was, and still am, weary that we won’t be able to hang out at all. I don’t want that. And, what’s so wrong with boobs?!?!

 (2:20 am): Nothing. In fact, yours are delightful, and I’ve replayed the experience over many times (especially the arching of which you bragged…that text put me in an awkward public situation, so you know). As I said, you are the exception; I was plenty attracted.

(2:21 am): HA sorry!

(2:21 am): We can hang out. I just hate being a douche, and sometimes I am one. …no worries, it was absolutely worth the glares.

(2:24 am): Wait…how did people see the text? Did you have your phone on a projector screen?

(2:25 am): No, Lucky. Jesus. It gave me an erection, goofy. I will withhold blonde joke.

(2:26 am): Well I didn’t know!!! Fuck.

(2:27 am): Dammit…now my mind is very much in the gutter. Thanks, Lucky.

(2:27 am) I honestly thought you meant someone saw the text. Silly.

(2:28 am): No, but when I saw it I was definitely like, ‘sweet Christ, what’s she trying to pull here?’

(2:30 am): I wasn’t trying to stir it up. Really. It was the truth. Now I know not to tell you that shit.

(2:32 am) I didn’t say that. It was a delightful message to receive. Only oddly timed. I was just looking for it again…too bad I can’t find it.

(2:36 am): What happened to it?!

(2:40 am): I give up. I’m just being creepy now. I don’t know what I want with it anyway, we’re having a conversation. Just thinking about it this late at night has me plenty turned on. I fear a cold shower awaits.

(2:41 am): A cold shower. Does that shit really help?

(2:41 am): No.

(2:42 am): I didn’t realize the text was that hot.

(2:43 am): It probably wasn’t…but the arching certainly was. It’s too late. My mind has wandered, and apparently decided to be a creeper.

(2:46 am): You’re not a creeper.

(2:47 am): You falling asleep?

(2:48 am): No. Are you trying to get rid of me yet?

(2:48 am): No.

(2:50 am): I’m watching an episode of Sex and the City.

(2:50 am): Oh no! I’m trying to get my mind back in a wholesome place, perhaps…

(2:50 am): Don’t worry. It’s on TV. It’s so watered down. Nothing racy.

(2:52 am): Shall I leave you to it? And, wow…

(2:52 am): And wow, what???

(2:52 am): Sex and the City. It was a very mild jab.

(2:53 am): Every guy gives women shit for Sex and The City. It’s just candy.

(2:55 am): The other day you said the chick lit you were reading had gotten a little steamy. I laughed at that, too.

(2:55 am): That’s why I told you. I think it’s funny that I read that shit. But you know what? I like it and I’m not ashamed.

(2:56 am): I knew that was your intention in telling. Charming. It was noted. Makes you cuter.

(2:56 am): I always assume Nicholas Sparks is the laughing stock of his poker night. But he has a ton of books. They’re all the same, but still.

(2:57 am): I don’t know him. Shoot. We should’ve started chatting earlier. Fencing…damn.

(2:58 am): I use the chick lit to break it up. Now, I’m reading Congo. Not sexy. At all.

(2:59 am): Michael Chrichton is my chick lit. And no, not sexy. Guilty pleasure. I realize how arrogant that sounded. Please consider it retroactively tempered.

(3:00 am): Really? I never would’ve thought that. This is my first.

(3:03 am): They are great. Jurassic Park ensured I would be teased throughout middle school. I’m rereading Gatsby. You should bring yours in Friday. Reading and a beer after the meeting. Real hot times, and cheap.

(3:05 am): I definitely won’t be at the meeting Friday. Rain check. I know you’re sad.

(3:06 am): I am sad! What are you doing?

(3:06 am): I’m going out of town for another bachelorette weekend.

(3:07 am): Jesus. Maybe Thursday?

(3:08 am): Sure.

(3:09 am): Perfect. I think I’m fading. Somewhat.

(3:09 am): Alright. Sleepy time.

(3:10 am) Adieu, my dear.

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U smile, I smile.

Since the weird split-breakup-candy-coated-rejection from JB, I’m not going to lie, I’ve felt a little off. I feel like there I went again, all crazy on some guy I barely knew, and chased him off in some way.

Chances are, it’s him not me (ha!), but I’m insecure about that shit.

Tuesday, I had to go into the magazine office to drop off some materials for our photographer. I was dreading it—it would be the first time I saw JB since that night of the awkward dinner/talk.

As I drove over to the office, I was praying to Jesus he wouldn’t be there…it was lunchtime, I thought, surely he would be out. But of course, I saw his car right when I pulled up. I literally groaned out loud: “daaaaaaamn.”

When I went inside, not only was he there, but I could hear him talking to the sports editor—the guy I had the semi-sexual dream about. AWESOME.

Since he wasn’t expecting me, you could tell he was surprised to see me. I handed him the envelope and was ready to turn and walk out (my hands were shaking and my mouth was going dry). But of course, he started asking me a bunch of questions: what’s in here? What’s it for? What are you doing today? Do you know who I could contact for this story?

I finally just said I needed to get back to my big girl job, turned, and left.

It seems we’ve gotten into a routine of replying each other’s texts a day apart, which is basically pointless. Two nights prior, he had sent me a text about his trip. So Tuesday night, I responded. He didn’t respond until Wednesday night.

In my response, I kept it minimal—one word.

Well, my next assignment is to undergo a kickboxing boot camp and then kick someone’s ass at the end. Who’s ass will I be kicking? Take a guess.

At 12:40 am, JB sends, “When is our kickboxing deathmatch?”

Then another, “I’m a little nervous. I’m pretty out of shape.”

Me, “I need to go to the gym and figure out the boot camp situation.”

JB, “If I feel threatened I’ll totally go berserk on you. My little brother will tell you…”

Me, “I’m going to kick your ass. Don’t worry.”

And I am dead set on it. Lil brat. I was starting to get the vibe that I’d read our previous conversation (about giving him time) completely wrong. I felt like he meant to say he didn’t want to have anything to do with me, which I think would be completely ridiculous. Believe it or not, I am perfectly capable of getting to know someone without getting naked.

But that is where we stand now.

If I was feeling the least bit down about all that, a little someone with a little something cheered me up yesterday. The Ex completely surprised me at my office, carrying a plastic bag. I was shocked to see him in the first place, but what was in the bag?

None other than Justin Bieber’s “Never Say Never” on DVD!

Uh, HOLLA! It came out a week ago, and I completely wanted to go to Best Buy at midnight and get it, but I was still so sleepy from my late nights with (the other) JB. Heh heh.

I immediately ripped it open and popped it in my computer for a little work watch party by myself.

“I can’t believe I just contributed to this,” the ex said.


Let me tell you, Never Say Never was just as delicious as it was the first two times I saw it. Here’s why:

1. Scooter Braun

I think I’ve mentioned this before, that I think Justin’s manager, Scooter is pretty sexy.

Okay, so he was arrested. Everyone loves a bad boy.

2. The Special Features

There are loads of special features on the DVD such as: a concert dance-off, a performance of “Favorite Girl,” RIP hair flip (a video of The Bieb getting his infamous new haircut), and a video clip of Justin’s team giving away free tickets to The Bieb concerts.

3. U Smile

This song has got to be one of, if not, my favorite JB song—seriously, so sweet. I love seeing the live performance.

4. Usher

Being that Usher is The Bieb’s role model, it’s no shocker that he’s in about half of the movie. And he looks GOOD.

5. One Less Lonely Girl

I don’t particularly love this song, but there is a part in the movie where Justin performs it. During each live performance of this song, a random girl is picked from the audience and gets to go on stage, get serenaded by Justin and gets a huge bouquet of roses. It seriously brings tears to my eyes.


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Kiss and tell.

{Last time, in Lucky’s latest love attempt, JB invited her to sleep over at his place after a night of drinking and Texas Hold ‘Em. They were just sharing their first kiss…}

I honestly couldn’t believe my balls! I was confident going in for the kiss in my early dating years, but this was a little gutsy! Thankfully, I didn’t get rejected, although it was a little awkward given the position we were in (me still in the chair and him on the floor).

Although my drinking memory has faded me, I know we eventually made it upstairs, to a loft where his bedroom and bathroom is. I started digging around in my purse for, what I assume is, the shacker’s best friend—the Colgate wisp disposable toothbrush.

So, there we stood, him at his sink, brushing his teeth. Me at the guest sink, Wisp-ing.

When I went back into his bedroom, he asked me if I would like something to wear. Naturally, being drunk and a bit of a flirt, I declined and just chucked my jeans and hopped in the bed.

Once he joined me, we kissed more, and he shockingly did what the fabulous blogger Catherinette calls a Bartles & Jaymes (think about it…). It was nice—something I’ve never gotten enough of in previous relationships or hookups (not to get too graphic for you). I didn’t reciprocate. That’s how mean I am (hehe).

Sometime in there…before or after the Bartle & James, he brought up something we’d texted about days before—his recent breakup.

“We were long distance for three years,” he said. “She moved here to see if it could work with us living in the same city…and it didn’t. Even though the breakup is very recent…very recent as in last week, it seemed to be rough for a few months. It was just time.”

What he didn’t know was that I pretty much knew all that after stalking her facebook page and seeing that she already moved back to where she came from. However, I simply said, “well, breakups are hard no matter if you see it coming or not.”

He then assured me, he didn’t want me to be a rebound, as he thought there was more to me than that. I appreciated his honesty, and his comment, but I was a little confused as to where I stood. How was I supposed to avoid being a rebound?

Although I don’t remember it, we eventually fell asleep. When we woke up to my lovely phone alarm, we picked up the conversation and the kissing…okay, and he indulged me in a second (yes, a second) Bartles & Jaymes. I was beginning to feel a little spoiled.

He was laying on the compliments—”you’re a perfect cuddler…not too far away, not too close, and very sexy.”

When then, there was a knock on the door. I froze.

I wondered if it was one of the writers, a friend of his, the ex? Was it someone who was going to see me, laying in his bed sans clothing?

He went downstairs to answer it—complete with morning wood and a shit-eating grin—it was his boss. I listened to their short conversation and JB joined me back in bed.

I needed to get up and get moving, so I did. As I got dressed, he kept pulling be back toward him for kisses. Cheesy, but I was melting. He walked me to my car, kissed me, saying he was glad I stayed over, and that he would text me later—he wanted to cook me dinner.

So I went about my day, playing hooky from work, and skipping off to the hair salon. I was still in my shacker clothes, with bedhead, when who do I see getting a haircut? Fratty.


Somehow, I was able to avoid him. I don’t even know if he saw me.

Later that night, JB said he was starting to cook and asked if I wanted to come over. I was hesitant to, worried things were moving too fast. But, I threw on something decent, grabbed a bottle of wine, and went to his place.

Well. If I thought things were moving too fast, they were about to come to a screeching halt.

He asked me about my day, opened the wine, and fixed me a plate. We ate, and things were fine, until this:

JB: You made some pretty interesting decisions last night, being drunk.

L: I did? Like what?

JB: Staying over here.

L: I wouldn’t say that’s too interesting.

JB: How much of a crush do you have on me?

L: mmm…a little. A crush is a crush…I don’t really know you yet.

JB: Ok, that’s a good answer. I don’t think I was forthright about my recent breakup.

L: Well we did talk about it…unless you don’t remember?

JB: It was just SO recent…

L: Yeah, like last week.

JB: Ok, so maybe I was forthright with you. It’s just strange. But now is a good time to get to know me…

I felt rejected and confused. Why did he invite me over? Why did he fix dinner? How did we go from fooling around in the morning, to already pushing each other away that night? I wanted to leave right then.

However, I stuck it out, he kept refilling my wine, and we talked about general things. Then, he moved to sit next to me on the couch, and was being affectionate…I was more confused than ever and told him I should probably leave.

He walked me to my car and we shared a very awkward goodbye. I’m not sure, but it seemed like he went in for a kiss, and I darted left and gave him a hug. He immediately pulled away, started his walk back home, and said, “Thanks for coming over. See ya.”

I said nothing and drove home. I sent him a text, and told him it was awkward, because I’m not sure what’s allowed and what’s not.

He said we’d talk about it when the both of us were back from our weekend travels.

I consulted ShyGuy, who kindly told me I was a rebound and that JB still wanted to feel like he was in a relationship…but I’ve got to know what you think—spill it.

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Can I get a fuck you?

That’s right, I am pissed and I’m not taking any prisoners. I’m ready to burn this mother down! Let me explain…

The downward spiral began Thursday evening. I was approaching glass no. 3 of red, when the sadness sank in. I had reached that level of tipsy—I should’ve gone to bed after glass no.2. But we all know I have a problem with limits (especially when it comes to drinking).

I vented to Gizzy. I never heard from Wes. And yes, it made me a little sad.

In typical Lucky fashion I had done the wrong move and sent him a text Wednesday around lunch, asking him if he was fully recovered from the weekend. Got nothin’.

It’s one thing to give a guy your number and never hear a peep. But then to reach out, even just a little bit, and get reassurance, that nope, you don’t deserve a chance…


Then come the questions and wondering—why did he even get my number in the first place? What’s his problem? Where’s another bottle of wine?

Gizzy and I are constantly trying to lessen the blow of rejection. We know we shouldn’t care when someone doesn’t value us like they should. But, we’re human. And rejection hurts.

My initial plan was to ask Wes to the wedding I have this weekend. But since he’s a no show, I asked my friend from work—boots. Should be interesting.

Friday night, I was feeling better, ready to hit the streets and down some booze. But first, I had a meeting at the magazine—it’d been weeks since I could get away from the office to attend one.

Once I got there, Jesus Belt was nowhere to be found, but we started the meeting without him. Then, I got an apology text from him, saying he was on his way.

When he arrived, he was looking rather dapper in his ironed oxford shirt and sports jacket…Then, he asked me if I wanted to meet his dog—an animal he adopted a few weeks prior.

“Sure!” I said.

Once he brought the dog back into the office, he (JB) was acting shy…it was the weirdest thing. However, I brushed it off and went on to margaritaville. That’s when JB was curious as to what I was doing that night. I explained I was out with my girlfriends, but asked what he was up to. So, he invited me to join him later at another bar. I asked him what the scene was—hot dudes?

“Wall to wall studburgers,” he said.

“No it’s not.”

“Okay, well at least ankle deep,” he replied.

“No. And besides everyone has a girlfriend anyway. Even you. That’s no fun.”

Ehhh, tequila talking? But more than what I typed, the bigger surprise was his response—the gf was no more.

I didn’t want to get into THAT conversation, so I kindly told him goodnight.

Saturday, I had the grande idea to get completely wasted at lunch, which resulted in midday texting to Fratty. At first, things were going good…until Fratty laid it out: “What do you want from me? I heard you were back with the cheating disgusting trashy bastard ex.”

What. The. Fuck.

Who else would he have heard it from but the bastard himself? So, I ask you, why in the fuck would the bastard ex be going around telling people we were back together, when in fact, he’d been treating me like a piece of shit—nothing like a girlfriend. One answer: vagina block.

I was pissed. I wanted to ask the bastard what his problem was, but did I want him to know that I was desperately seeking the men of my past for an innocent romp? I decided I didn’t care—it’s none of his business and I can, and will, do whomever I please.

So I asked him, and of course he said he hadn’t talked to Fratty in a year or something. Well I call bullshit, even though i never responded to his message. So there I was. Drunk. Livid. With not even a Fratty to fuck.

Naturally, there was only one thing to do—eat a bacon cheeseburger from Wendy’s and then go to sleep way too early for a Saturday night.

Oh, but then, I awoke around midnight, to a message from JB himself. We started texting…and before we knew it, we had been talking for two hours. And I was cracking up, laughing.

He invited me to come over, join him for a beer, but that’s something I’ve done before (with other guys) and it never ends the way I hope. So, I politely declined, and he agreed he wanted to continue our flirty banter in person.

I will say, I’m a but surprised, and a bit giddy over it. The beginning is always so fun, right?

We had another conversation Sunday night, and it was quite delightful…just when I thought things were in the dump. When one door closes, another one opens…and it might just be a sign from Jesus.

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It’s so haaard toooo saaaay goodbye.

It sure it a glorious and beautiful day, isn’t it?

Yeah, this is Lucky here. Why am I so chipper on this lovely Friday, you ask? Because last night, while I was sleeping a wondrous sleep, I got an e-mail from our friend Jesus Belt. And it said exactly what I needed to hear.

Check it out:

To: Lucky

From: David, aka Jesus Belt

Subject: Re: pitches

By the way, regarding the mass e-mail I sent to the writers announcing that we would be pulling back on the Sunday meetings and freelance generally — I should have called you personally, and I am sorry that I didn’t.  You are a special case, and I extremely grateful for your hard work, your awesome attitude, and your amazing reliability as a freelancer.  You work like a professional, and I really appreciate that.  I am going to try to find as much room in the budget for stories from you that I possibly can, and when our page count finally goes up, and we have to expand, I want you to know that you are on the short list of people I would like to offer a full-time position to.  I think we are a long way off from that, and I don’t know that you would even be interested, but it’s meant as a compliment.  You are doing great, just great.  Thanks again.

I mean, is that not completely AWESOME, or what? It was the second e-mail of two, which is why the beginning is weird. I had sent him a message regarding an assignment. In the end, I was upset over basically nothing, and now I don’t have to force anything when I go to the meeting this afternoon—because they like me, they really, really like me!
Anyway, enough of that shit. You might notice I removed our Justin Bieber background. so today, we must say goodbye (partially) to The Bieb. I can’t bring myself to get rid of the header image and go back to the martini glasses. Now, before our (partial) goodbye, let’s get a few things straight. The Bieb still has a very special place in my heart. I do love him. Forever, for-eva-eva.
However, it came to my attention that certain people (ahem, my new blog crush, Inside The Nice Guy) was UNABLE to read our blog during work hours because of the ridicule he would receive if his coworkers glanced over, and saw The Bieb. And that, I just can’t handle. I think I can speak for Gizzy when I say we want nothing more than for this to be a place you can come during work hours, to essentially, avoid doing work (after all, what do you think I’m doing right now)?
So, Nice Guy, I hope I solved the problem—just scroll down to hide The Bieb header.
And secondly, I’m just going to put it out there that The Bieb needs some new material. I mean, I was loving “Baby” and then I saw the movie(s), and then bought the albums, and then watched all the YouTube videos, and then watched him on all the late-night talk shows, and then, juuuuuust when I think I’m done with him, he has to go appear on one of my FAVORITE shows—Fantasy Factory.
Bieber!!!!! What are you trying to do to me? You’re teasing this poor, single, lonely girl. So why don’t come on over and make One Less Lonelyyyyyy Girl, One Less Lonely Girl. I’ll let you inside my world!!!!!
In honor of our (partial) goodbye, here’s an acoustic goodie—because I’ll Never Let You Go 😉
In other news, I wanted to tell you about a date I went on about a month ago. Right after my weekend with Ralphie, I received a package in the mail—I had no idea what it was! When I opened it, it was two tickets to see one of my favorite, very famous and talented, jazz artists. The tickets were from none-other than The Ex.
To make a long story short, I bought a floor-length dress (steel blue with an empire waist adorned with pewter embellishment), some jewels, and even a pair of false eyelashes (which he read the directions for me while I applied them). He took me to a very nice dinner (we ate steaks and potatoes and spinach) and we had drinks (me a martini, him a pinot) before the show. From the restaurant, we walked to the concert, and made it to our seats just in time for the show. It was so awesome! I loved every moment of it—I felt like I had a good friend. On our walk back to the car, he said, “I really enjoyed that, I wasn’t sure if I would.”
“Really, I thought you liked him before?”
“Oh yes, I did, but I really just wanted to do this for you. I know we don’t get to see each other much, and I knew you would like this.”
Aside from Gizzy and Buttons, no one bothered to ask me about it. Had it been any other guy, they would have. But that’s okay. Only I can know what’s right for me, and right now, I need a friend. And The Ex, is doing a pretty good job of being just that.
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Dear Lucky, you suck.

Now that my apartment is bug-free, my cat is healthy, and everything is spick and span, I want to explain more about this e-mail I got from Jesus Belt last week.

I’ll just jump right in to the message:

To: Magazine Staff

From: Jesus Belt

Subject: Major, Important Change

Hello, everyone,

Just a head’s up:
We are going to cool off on freelance content a bit.  Not so much that you would notice, but some.  As a result, I am doing away with Sunday meetings.  We are going to have editorial meetings on Fridays at 3 p.m. in the editorial room at the office.  Freelancers are still very much invited to attend the first half of the meeting, but if you can’t make it, you all have to be that much more aggressive pitching your stories.  This is going to be especially true as we back off on content generated by stringers.
Starting this Friday, April 1, all ideas for stories that will go in the April 13th issue must be submitted to me, and I will respond no later than Monday to let you know whether you have the assignment. So, assignments are due on Friday for the issue that will print two Wednesdays after.  That is a standing order.  Exceptions will be considered on a case-by-case basis; if you see something hot dropping after that deadline, give me a call and we will determine whether we want to chase it.
If anyone has anyone questions, let me know.  I want everyone to respond to this e-mail to let me know that you got it.  Thanks for all of your hard work. I think the magazine is great, it’s doing well and seems well received, and I still believe there’s a place for everyone on this list in our pages.

Is it just me, or is this a “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup message? I did respond, like he asked, with a simple: “Got it.”

Truth be told, my ego was nearly destroyed. Let me explain.

You might remember that I was previously fired via e-mail, from this same person. THEN, this same person called and asked me back to the magazine, but not before cutting me down and telling me I need to read a book on how to interview (which I’m coincidentally reading now).

I’d finally gotten to a point where I felt like I was contributing some really decent shit to this publication, writing 1-3 stories each week, and doing whatever was asked of me. And yes, the e-mail was written to the entire staff, so I guess I shouldn’t take it personally, but the whole new meeting time bugs the crap out of me. I have work at that time—at the job that actually PAYS my bills.

Yeah, it’s a good magazine, but it’s a local. It isn’t Martha Stewart, it isn’t VOGUE, so I’m sorry that I think this whole “aggressive pitch” scheme is complete bullshit.

And then, there’s the flip side—if I can’t impress some news magazine in this shit of a city, how am I ever going to make it elsewhere?

And that is exactly what was going through my head Thursday night when I was laying on my couch eating cereal, watching Sex and The City. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to text, nothing. I felt like I was just a pawn in a game of chess, and Jesus Belt was that nerdy asshole with the roman numerals duct-taped on his old briefcase.

In my bout of depression, I missed a call from the chess-geek himself, and I had no desire to call him back. He didn’t leave a message, and in my mind, if you don’t leave a message, then it must not be that important. I figured he was calling to see if I was pissed, or if I was coming to the Friday meeting.

I didn’t go to the Friday meeting—the first meeting I’ve missed this whole time. Frankly, I couldn’t go, as I had a meeting at my full-time job, which I have to put first.

Wednesday, I still have my usual deadline, from a pitch I gave a few weeks ago, so we’ll see how that works out. I do plan on going to the meeting this Friday, and I will try my damnedest to pretend I’m fine, that I wasn’t hurt by JB and his cowardly attempts to brush me off.

That’s the thing about trying to become a professional writer. Often, it isn’t about the words you can compose, the people you talk to, or the stories you wish to tell. It’s more about your ability to persevere when shit heads try to knock you over. And that, my friends, is something I’m really struggling with—why does it have to be so difficult?

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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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