Neal Bledsoe hates my guts. He won’t accept my friend request. We have been in a pending friendship status for 4 months now, what is the flipping deal! You’re not that famous. With that being said, I’m still a loser, and he knows it.
So I’m back for good (hopefully.) I know I’ve made these false promises before, but it looks like the internet is going to stick this time, just like an unwanted pregnancy.
For my transition back to the blog world, I’m going to do it sloowww and steady because typing up 1000 words about my weekend of sitting on the couch crying to Dear John and eating Chinese food could really turn some people away. But for now, a post from a few weeks ago that continues to show my loserdom slash new found fascination for baby Jesus…
Here I am cleaning up my frat house and I find this shoved behind the tv:
Come to find out it’s stolen and now no one knows what to do with it because you can’t throw baby Jesus in the garbage. What nerve. They will steal baby Jesus, but won’t throw baby Jesus away. I suggested taking baby Jesus to a hospital or fire station and leaving him because they are “safe places” but that was a no go because there are surveillance cameras on every street corner. For the hookers. I don’t know what they expect. Baby Jesus can’t get any love.
Anyway, on to the big St. Patty’s day extravaganza, Gizzy terms: loser-aganza. I went ca-ca-clubbing Friday night with Chuck and was too ashamed to show my face in the daylight on Saturday. 1 day of drinking is all the embarrassment my almost 26 year old ego can handle.
She took us to some schnazzy apartment downtown where there was some hot husband who would probably cheat with their sexretary’s but it wouldn’t matter all that much because you’d have lots of money in da bank material. They took us to some upscale club, got us vip, and bottle service, you know really pulled out all the stops because big city girls don’t put out for nothin’.
I caught the eye of the tall funny goon of the group, he lingered for a while and we chatted it up, things were going pretty well and I actually thought I was starting to kind of like him right before I blew it. There was a little flirtation going on and we kept making eye contact yada yada yada, so I waved him over to come sit next to me on the couch.
Instead of grabbing his head and proceeding to suck face, like I think he was expecting me to do, I pet a section of the couch between us and told him to feel it. It wasn’t a sexy come getcha some pet where I was like licking my lips and had do me eyes, it was super nerdy slash you’d of thought I owned a furniture store. I don’t know, I thought we were to that point where I realized he was the tall lanky goon and he realized I was the socially awkward girl who likes to pet couches and we were going to fall in love and live on the island of misfits and have a heard of outcast children. But it didn’t happen that way, instead he took 10 giant steps backward and screamed, “Did you really call me over here to have me feel the couch!?” Yeah, is that weird? I wanted his opinion on what kind of animal he thought it was made out of and I thought we were friends and he wasn’t going to think I was a couch loving freak. But I digress. Freak.
I did catch him petting the couch later and commenting on how soft it was and me being all, see I told you so, now go tell everyone I’m cool and not a couch hugger. Just when things were looking up, I fell and slid across the floor only to be hoisted up by security and thrown into a cab – alone.
Hello, hot mess and end of my drinking career as we know it.