Tag Archives: kill me

Some people really are destined to be…alone.

One night, (I believe it was super bowl Sunday) Lucky and I had a long talk about how we are awkward and a-social, and how we genuinely feel there’s no one out there waiting for us.  This conversation was prompted by #1 my drugs and #2 the fact that it was Snoop-Linus’ birthday, I sent him a Happy Birthday text, and heard nothing back for almost 24 hours.  I was starting to get the feeling that I should just suck up all of Snoop-Linus’ bad habits and cheating ways and be with him, I texted Lucky for a reality check, but when it comes to the two of us we can quickly bring the other one down too, as I did with Lucky that very night.

Anyway, the point of this story is that I don’t know how to talk to people, and I’m afraid it has me doomed to be a lonely old maid or to be with what I know, someone who treats me like shit. I won’t lie, Snoop-Linus finally texted back, we got into an argument, I said some things he said some things, it was ok for a few days, and now it’s back to awful.  If I can’t even get my cheating ex-boyfriend to give me any attention, how in the EFF am I supposed to get it from a nice guy?

It’s not just men that I feel like I can’t communicate with, it’s women too.  Like I can’t even make conversation good enough/act interested enough in peoples lame stories slash lives to get a decent group of girlfriends.  It all just seems so exhausting, and that is pretty much the same way I feel about dating.  Hearing the backstory of every ex-boyfriend/girlfriend and lame friend they’ve had that got them where they are today wears me out.  I mean that’s a lot of talking, and frankly if someone wants to put it all out there I’ll put my face into a pitcher of beer and listen.  But, they better not expect me to reciprocate the stories, because if that’s the case we’re going to need something a lot stronger than beer.  And by that I mean tranquilizers and a therapist.

Of course, I have my current friends who I will listen to/whine to about my problems all day long, but that’s because I already know their stories, I know the people in the stories, and I feel comfortable giving/asking for advice.  But when you meet someone new and they are telling you all of these stories where they’re all, “Oh and THEN John drug me behind his car and left me in a dumpster for dead.” And when I say, “Oh thank god you got rid of him!” And in walks said John with their 3 kids and malshi-poo, I’m the asshole.  So unacceptable.

So here I am, 1 month in to what was supposed to be the greatest decision/fresh start of my life and I’m pretty miserable. Not because I live in the laundry room of a frat house and have curtains for walls, but because I’m too lazy to make friends or find any kind of romantic life for myself.   Even Anth doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore because I’m gross and lately have been coughing things up.  I can’t help it, I’m sick.  So now I don’t know what to do.  For the time being I’m blaming it on the -10 degree weather and the fact that I’m still “adjusting.”  But I can only use these excuses for so long until I have to suck it up and face reality: that I’m probably doomed to be alone forever.  And just in the knick of time for Valentines Day (black holiday, as you will hear it commonly referred to by Lucky and myself.)

Speaking of Valentines day, I realized yesterday that I’m in the same, slightly modified, boat that I was last year.  Last year at Valentines Day I was figuring things out with Snoop-Linus after he had cheated on me a few weeks earlier, and when it came to V-Day weekend he ignored me because I asked him to come home with me to see one of my best friends who was in from out of town.  He said no because that would cut down on drinking time with his friends.  I went alone and stayed at home for the weekend and asked my 6 year old sister to be my Valentine.  She was the best Valentine I could’ve ever asked for, I bought her a Bratz doll and she got me candy and we watched movies all day.  Of course, as soon as I woke up on actual V-day last year (which was a Sunday if you all recall) when the drinking had commenced Snoop-Linus was asking me to dinner for that night because, “There’s no one he’d rather spend Valentines day with,” I don’t think I ever got an apology for being treated like shit and ignored all weekend; I just got a dinner, that I should’ve rejected.

So, in the memory of traditions I’m asking my little sister to be my Valentine again this year.  I’m going to drive my happy ass home tonight after work to play barbies and watch cartoons all weekend, and I couldn’t be happier about that decision.  If I ever find a guy who is OK with watching Disney movies and drinking chocolate milk with my sister and I on said black holiday, he might be in the running as a decent boyfriend.  This is all Neal Bledsoe’s fault.  We could be together right now.

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Growing up is hard to do when you’re a single mother of 4.

Cheerio old chaps! Yesterday I started hysterically crying and kicked all the blankets off of my bed in a fit because I realized that in less than two weeks my adult life, as we know it, begins.  Most of my friends, including Lucky, have been out in the real world for a few years now, god bless them all.

I, on the other hand took not 1 extra year but 2 extra years to finish college.  I’m every guy’s dream girl. I am days away from maybe being a certified financial planner (fingers crossed I passed the test.) That’s not what I want to do though, I hate my life. Anyone wanna hire me? Please? Gizzy, CFP wants to work for YOU!

It really started to hit me the other day when I went to my dad’s humble abode so he could fix the hoopty. He says to me, “Hey Gizzy, when you’re not doing anything during the days you could paint that room.” As he points to the room that is at least a million square feet and covered in choo-choo train wallpaper.  I snapped back that I would be spending my days looking for jobs so his train room can suck it.

Then, I started to think about how depressing my life is going to be.  Right now, my day consists of working my 9ish to 5’er job at a prominent investment firm, (They don’t want to hire me full time, dicks.  Well, I don’t want to work there full time, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.) and then going out every night and getting belligerently drunk while on a hunt for HOTTIE or an equivalent match with Bri and acts gay but says he’s straight friend Adam.

But once I move home… the whole story changes.  It’s like I go from a fun spunky 20 something to 45 year old mom pants.  I’m going to be sitting on the back porch with my dad and step-mom sipping vino in our matching rocking chairs while we watch the horses graze the pasture and wait for our bacon grease from the morning to harden. Annd… that’s it.  That’s all I’ll be doing. Every. Single. Day.

Unless of course I decide to drive to my mom’s house, where I can watch i-Carly and play barbies till the cows come home with my 6 year old sister.  It’s what every 25 year old single girl that is fresh out the college scene is looking for in order to have a fulfilling life.

Other Things Turning into Mom Pants Made Me Realize:

-That I should invest in every color of high wasted bongo pants, so I can look the part.

-Instead of saving my monies to buy a home for my unforeseeable family, I’m going to make it my engagement ring fund. Since I’ll be purchasing one for myself before any man does.

-That I need to start using phrases when I answer the phone like, “Yello!” and “Talk to me…” to give myself more character.  It also wouldn’t hurt if I made my voicemail, “Hello?*long pause* Ok, I’m not really here AHAHA gotcha! Leave a message at the beep.”

-I need to get a wallet that has picture holders, so that I have a place to put all the photos of my children. When I see old friends at the grocery or the dollar store I need them to be easily accessible.

-I need to get pictures of some children.

-Found some. I need to sit down with my lawyer and plan out my will.  The hoopty will go to my oldest son – Bobby

My girl, Xiofeng, will get my old blackberry, my collection of douchearoo’s douchey emails, and what’s left of my liver.

And the twinsies, T’Sha’n and Frieda, can have my sunscreen, my cash, my rotisserie, and my bed

(UPDATE: The rotisserie goes to Lucky, as well as my high school diaries, my little black book, and my list of guys who are rumored to be tainted by the STID!  It’s actually std, but when I say it I say STID! Now you know for next time.)

– I need to make sure to pay the $1 to USPS to have my mail forwarded to hell. C/o Lucifer.

-Look into buying every color of the rainbow in lipliner. The 8o’s are back.  And the 90’s, they’re next. And in a decade when it happens and I am 55 and mom pants you best believe I’ll be looking good.

-That I lay out my collection of coozies and decide which is may favorite so that I am sure to always have it keeping my coors light ice cold.

-That since making this list of realizations I have realized that I am not only going to be 45 and mom pants; but white trash, 45, and mom pants.

-That I might not be able to throw back shots like I used to back in college, so I should always be sure to bring enough wine spritzers to parties to keep me as tipsy as the kids.

-That if I am going to be 45, a single mother of 4, and engaged to myself I should learn how to cook something other than tgi fridays mozzerella cheese sticks and spaghettios.

-That this list has gotten way out of control, and what I really need to do instead of blogging about how I’m going to be on welfare, is look for jobs in cool places that will allow me to send Bobby, Xiofeng, Frieda, and T’Sha’n to private school.

-Ok, I’ll do that now.

(2ND UPDATE: Right after I did the first update where I wrote Lucky into my will of misfortune, I felt something in my underwear scratching my butt. So I stuck my hand down there and pulled out the mystery butt scratcher.  It was a starburst wrapper.  I can’t tell you the last time I had or have even seen a starburst.  The time. Is 4:13 a.m. And I am utterly disgusted/confused.)

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