Tag Archives: whore

The Navy Seal (Part 1)

I’ve been telling myself I wasn’t going to post anything unless I had something to talk about aside from Nutter Butter and how sad I still am about the breakup.  I don’t want to make it harder on myself than it already is, and definitely don’t want to put you all through the pain of having to read the same thing over and over again.  

With that being said, Chuck came to visit me on Saturday.  I had been scouting out friends all week to come and day drink with me.  For the first time in months it was going to be warmer than 50 degrees and the sun was supposed to make an appearance, why wouldn’t we celebrate with some afternoon cocktails?

We made it to the bar around 2:30 and as soon as we walked in we spotted a group of guys all decked out in America gear, short shorts, and funny mustaches.  For those of you that don’t know, these are 3 of my favorite things.  I love people that dress up funny to drink, it just makes the day that much better.  Anyway, I knew after I got a drink or two in me I’d make friends with these guys and we’d have a gay ol time.  And that we did.

A few minutes later one of them walked by us so I asked what they were celebrating.  And he shouted “MERICA!”  Oh. My. God. Yes!  Eventually we made our way over to the rest of the group, talking, mingling, and taking pictures.  

After talking to one of the guys for a while, I found out that they were “from” a really small town nearby, they all worked together (for the government), yet all had San Diego phone numbers – which is a solid 2,000+ miles away.  When I asked what they did for the government they all got weird, said “stuff”, and changed the subject.  The other thing about these guys is that behind the mustaches and goofy clothes, they were all really hot and jacked with huge muscles and awesome bodies. Hmmmmmmm.

As it got later in the day, these guys trickled out and we were left with the only 2 without mustaches that weren’t dressed in America gear. As I started talking to this one guy, Kyle, about their job he finally revealed that they are all Navy Seals and were “hanging out” at a nearby military base until April.  I didn’t believe him until he showed me his government ID and a picture on his phone of him dressed in full on sailor gear. But I still kept asking what business Navy Seals have HERE, because we are landlocked. He kept saying he couldn’t tell me, so I was then convinced they were a part of Seal Team 6 and killed Bin Laden.  HAHA. I know it sounds crazy, but he never denied it.  This is the point in the day when I should have stopped drinking and just went home.  I could’ve left the day thinking about all the hot Navy Seals I met and wouldn’t have any regrets the next day.  

But, you know all to0 well that’s not what happened…

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Protected: This Old Bitch.

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Feeling The Frisky.

I feel so weird now, speaking to you all, as if I didn’t just tell you about the weirdest shit that’s happened to me in awhile. I can’t say “ever.”

But that’s life. And we move on.

I don’t know about you, but I am an avid reader of The Frisky. And this week, there were two articles that resonated with me. Like, I’ve been thinking about them for days. And I’d like to share them with you.

The first, was in the “Dear Wendy” section—basically an advice column that’s nice and blunt. My kind of gal.

Topic: What’s the REAL reason he doesn’t want to date me?

Question: A week ago I met a really nice guy and we hit it off right away. We both are newly single and expressed to one another that we were just looking for someone to go out and spend time with. We went on our first official date a couple of days ago and it went very well. I was pretty certain that we’d see each other again because at certain moments during the date he would make references to future dates. Well, a few hours after the date he texted me saying that while he had a nice time with me and liked me he wasn’t ready for any kind of commitment and wanted to keep his options open. He also said that he felt like if we continued to see one another we’d likely end up in a serious relationship, and that that’s not what he wants right now. I know the answer here should be obvious to me, but it just really sucks! I have never connected this soon with someone before and we had a great first date and I could tell he was into me, but now suddenly I’m rejected because he likes me too much? He said he didn’t want to hurt me and that I deserve a lot more than he can give me right now. Do you think he was he being genuine and really looking out for me? Or was this just his way of saying he’s not into me without actually saying it?

Now, does this not resemble the situation with JBelt? I think it does. So, Wendy’s answer hit home. The jist:

What difference does it make whether he was being “genuine” or simply trying not to hurt your feelings? The bottom line is that, for whatever reason, this guy doesn’t want a relationship with you. Trying to somehow justify his reasoning or twist it around in your head to mean something it doesn’t or convince yourself that with enough effort you could still have a chance with him will do nothing but make you look and feel foolish. Here’s the thing about guys: whether they’re “newly single” or have been on the market for a long time, if they want you as their girlfriend, they will waste NO TIME treating you like a girlfriend. And if they aren’t interested in you as a girlfriend, they will waste no time in letting you know that as well.

There was more, but that’s the part that really hit the nail on the head. So what if JBelt just got out of a relationship or whatever. Obviously he isn’t interested and I just need to get it through my thick skull and move forward. Trust me, I’m trying. And yeah, I have to fucking see him this afternoon for our magazine meeting. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in weeks. Any advice?

The second article that struck me was this: “How Going to Vegas for a Bachelorette Party Made Me Question Everything.”

If that title doesn’t get you, I don’t know what will. Now, I definitely suggest reading it, but the deal is this girl goes on a bachelorette weekend, she’s the only single person and she feels embarrassed to be parading around Vegas grasping penis suckers to celebrate a marriage. She starts to wonder why we don’t celebrate other milestones—in her case, getting a master’s degree.

Completely understood.

I’ve been on two bachelorette weekends this spring, and am headed on my third a week from today. And while, I don’t feel embarrassed by the lollicocks and the plastic engagement rings, it is twisted that we don’t celebrate more in our lives. I know I’ve mentioned it before—us singletons really get the shit-end of the stick.

I’ve wondered what I would do if my dream came true of making it into the Sunday Times—I’ve always figured I’d host a brunch the morning it was printed. Or what if my book was published? Or became a best-seller? Or what will I do when I purchase my first home? Those are all big accomplishments, whether I have a man by my side or not.

That’s a societal thing, I suppose. And society, as much as I hate using that term, is a big reason single people feel like shit. So, I want to know—what’s the milestone you want to celebrate?

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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.

God.

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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Not about Britney, bitch.

Whew! Gang, I’m going to admit it, we’ve had some tough subjects on the blog lately—tampons, gynos, breakups, married men, and Justin Bieber. So Gizzy & I thought we’d actually do our job and give you some comic relief. Which is why we called upon one of our favorite bloggers, Kevin.

I love Kevin, because he loves vodka, female rappers, and baking. He also has the same name as my favorite movie character, Kevin McCallister.

Basically what Lucky is trying to say is that if we could choose only 1 drunk, gay, asian, baker to be our bff, it would totally be Kevin. I mean, even the title of his blog gets us excited. Cranberry and vodka, please. Just brilliant!

Yeah, enjoy.

The girls at Cocktails at Tiffany’s requested that I write a guest blog post for their site, which is this site. I could have said no, but I realized that they have more readers than I do. So now that I have volunteered, I’m expecting this post will blow you away and then you will be all like, “This kid is great! I have to read more on what he has to say about complete nonsense going on his life!”

Of course I don’t want (or plan) on full-blown exposure, as I didn’t fare well when people talked about me for a story I submitted on a drunken whim (i.e. 2Birds1Blog via May 2010). Other than looking to amuse – and maybe impress – you in short, I don’t have any other objectives at all. Right now you’re merely a reader of what I’m about to randomly throw at you just to see if you even like me. And it’s cool if you don’t. Think of this as an audition and you’re the judge. You can stop anytime by clicking on the previous icon if you want. I never liked William Faulkner or Sarah Palin’s literary works anyway, and never intend on meeting them (that is, Faulker’s grave and Palin dead or alive).

But maybe you’ll get a better sense of who I am within the next few paragraphs or so. And if you haven’t had enough of me, perhaps I would suggest you to my site by clicking here or grazing your eyeballs to the right to find my blog (too far, now you’re looking at the site’s credits. A little left. Right there! I’m under “Cranberry and vodka, please.” [Actually I’m not much a cranberry and vodka drinker these days as I currently prefer it with just soda and lime when I’m out, but calling my blog “Vodka and soda, please” sounds stupid. Before I go out, I’ll drink a can of Four Loko. Having all that sugar in my body, combined with cranberry juice, spells out hot mess disaster, or H-O-T-M-E-S-S-D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R]). Best believe I’m as uninteresting as you would imagine a pre-gastric bypass Star Jones, Monique, and chubby Oprah fighting over the last drumstick in a bucket of KFC.

Maybe I’m trying too hard to impress you.

Allow me to start over.

Hi, I’m Kevin. I’m assuming most of the readers for this blog are women. I minored in women studies so I understand your oppression better than you. I’m also a gay man, which means I don’t want to get you pregnant, but do want to see you in heels 24/7. This doesn’t mean, however, that I love Glee, flip my hands, and whip my hair back and forth, OR THAT I WANT YOU TO BE MY FAG HAG. Just a bit of notice to anyone looking to hook up their gay friends together: It’s the absolute worst when a straight friend tries to hook me up with their gay friend thinking we will get along mainly on the basis that we’re gay. (My date ended awfully. Click here for the story). I’m merely an average liberal minded, Asian, yoga inducing, baker who religiously listens mostly to folk music and fast bumping hip-hop (which I discovered after organizing my iTunes and realizing that most of my music was thanks to sitting in many coffee shops simultaneously wishing I was apart of Trina’s bad bitches entourage). What I’m getting at is that I’m indifferent about being gay. Sure it has its pros and cons, but it doesn’t define who I am. I have gay friends, but that’s because they’re mostly Asian too. This is the part where I should have taken out that “I’m also a gay man” bit, but too concerned with making a point. And to be honest, I feel that some gay men conform to being “gay: because it’s totally cool to call your other gay friends “girl” and listen to the latest Britney album as if she’s going to tell you the secret to long-term financial success. Do you know how many times I read Facebook statuses of, “Don’t be a drag, be a queen!” when “Born This Way” made its debut? It had to be one of the most annoying things I experienced since I found out egg white and white were the same color; honestly, WTF?!

Damn it, now I sound like a fucking douche.

I haven’t done a very good job impressing you and now I’m coming off like a conceded mother effer like the time I tried convincing someone I bleached my asshole on a regular basis. Now I’m coming up with random anecdotes and you might be thinking, Kill yourself, Kevin. Kill yourself. If not, read on!

Nothing to the gay community. They’ve done a lot and I appreciate the years of societal tolerance past generations had paved for me to enjoy my life. It’s just the stereotypical connotations people, even myself, think of when they imagine gays to be like. (Click here for my view on it). All-in-all I could really say that I’m neither this nor that. I don’t think anyone really wants to be classified when identifying themselves since most of us are in that generation where it’s all about me. Not me-me. I said it earlier before that I can’t handle people knowing a lot about me. Then again it makes me look like a hypocrite having a blog and recording my shameless experiences through a public website for people to read.

This is not how I typically write. Promise. Matter of fact, I’m much less condescending and make more sense. If you think I’m lying, then you my friend have just killed a Pokemon. I write about getting drunk and doing stupid things.

Speaking of making sense, lately I’ve felt like the only time I come up with great new ideas, nuances, and epiphanies are when I’m under the influence. (Maybe you’re expecting me to outline what things I’ve done in the past, but perhaps it’s best to keep those things quiet until you get me really drunk and then I will be DYING to tell you a secret. I told a friend the other day as we were drinking, “Hey John, don’t forget to remind me that when I’m drunk so I can tell you a secret about [redacted].” More times than not I forget what I say.)

Honestly I’m writing this all on a whim. Typically I don’t like to sit down and edit my work and people have told me and I’ve attempted editing a few times, but there’s other things I’d rather do. Like eat frozen chicken tacos. The stuff I’m putting out on the Internet is for people to freely read. Some of the funniest things written on the Internet are free. And maybe I lack the patience for editing, but the quality, I think, is still there nonetheless. I don’t think that anyone posting comments on YouTube gives a fuck about what anyone else thinks about their grammar. Then again, I love reading the comments where users bicker back and forth about grammar problems. I believe that most forms of entertainment should be free; that’s why I go to the bookstore to read a book I don’t want to pay for because isn’t it why they have chairs and tables there? And if you’re still paying for your music, I’m really sorry. I’m known in my different circle of friends to be a cheap person – or “niggardly” which my law professor so likes to use (and she doesn’t think it will make us feel uncomfortable?!) – so I’m totally fine with people reading my work for free. There’s no other exposure better than the Internet.

Damn it again, the topic I wanted to write about in the beginning of writing this was going to be about gay and straight relationships. And all I really did was ramble.

I hope that my objective was at least minimally met to make you laugh or giggle or snicker. Of course if you didn’t like what I had to say, it’s okay, because I already think you’re a tool.

Kevin

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Get pissed, Lucky. Get. Pissed.

Before I met The Ex, I was dating this guy…I’ll call him Texas. We met and worked together at good ole Abercrombie while we were both in school.

He, like most of the men I’ve dated, was a workaholic, even at our lousy retail job. But, he took me to nice dinners with wine and seafood, and despite not having much in common, we managed to laugh a lot during our relationship.

We broke up the first time because he said he wanted to work more. So, we went off to date other people, and somehow found ourselves back at square one, hanging out again.

However, he graduated school and found a job in another state. At that point, I didn’t want to have a long distance relationship, but I also didn’t want him to find anyone else and forget about me. My story is typical—except that our relationship wasn’t all daisys and dildos, it was abusive.

His words manipulated me to thinking I was ugly and a whore—sex was rare in our relationship, and when it happened, only missionary was allowed, I was to put on pajamas afterward, and he would always tell me he regretted it, since we weren’t married.

This would end in a fight, as it should, and I would leave in the middle of the night, if I could (once I started visiting him in another state, this was a problem). Like most people, I hate fighting. And I’m not very good at it. I’m soft-spoken and I often just curl up and cry.

Since I don’t yell often, my fights with Texas would include me repeating, “I’m really pissed off,” like a recently botoxed housewife. But it never worked. Texas would say, “Oh really? Get PISSED Lucky!!!! Get pissed!” as if he was waiting for me to turn red and scream. That’s just not my style. So, because he didn’t respect me, and because I didn’t act like a fucking grizzly bear during arguments, he rarely took my hurt feelings seriously.

As months passed in our long-distance semi-relationship, my bullshit meter was slowly filling up. It may have taken me a long time to realize how messed up he was making me, but it was happening. We had a blow up one night over the fact that I’d spent my earned money on flights to see him several times, yet he hadn’t returned the favor.

He called me one night to prove me wrong, and say he was finally coming in town to visit me. But it wasn’t the full truth—his company was paying for him to make an appearance at a local job fair. Regardless, he wanted to stay at my place.

At this point, I’d been on a few dates with The Ex and I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, however I told him he could stay with me.

On the day he was coming in town, I had to bartend for happy hour, so he said he would meet me at the bar at 7 and have some drinks until I got off work at 9.

I showed up for work at 3, and the longer I worked, the more I didn’t feel right about him visiting me or staying with me. I secretly hoped it would just go away. The after work rush came, I got busy, and before I knew it, it was 8—an hour after he was supposed to be there.

I checked my phone. Nothing.

And then it hit me. Like a light switch, my blood boiled, and I hated Texas. This one incident was a perfect representation of our entire fucked up relationship—everything on his time, his will, and not a care in the world about me.

For the last hour of my shift, I was anxious. I kept eyeing the door, afraid he was going to show up. At five till 9, I counted my drawer as fast as I could, grabbed my coat and purse, and checked my phone again.

“I’m on my way, don’t leave,” he texted.

I ran out of the bar, hopped in my car, and raced to my apartment, laughing like an evil witch. He didn’t know where I lived, so I knew I’d be safe once I got there. And when I did, I sat in my bed, and laughed.

I could picture it: him standing in the bar with his suitcases, nowhere to stay, no one to talk to. Did I mention it was his birthday?

It was in those few seconds I realized there was nothing I could ever say to him to make him realize the pain he’d caused me. For the first time in my dating life, I’d told someone to fuck off, and I did it with a smile on my face.

Tuesday night, I reached that same point with The Ex. Since our nice night at the jazz concert, I was getting the “BBD” treatment—when a guy looks for the bigger, better deal. This was a common problem in my relationship with The Ex. He would never make plans with me, until he had consulted his work, his parents, his friends, his grandparents, etc…and then if there was nothing else to do, he would fit me in.

At first, it seemed like he’d changed. But he hasn’t, and I don’t deserve to be treated like that. At first, I felt foolish for letting him back in, but then I never would’ve reached the feeling I have now—RAGE. I have no desire to argue with him, or fix the problem. HE is the problem. Now all I want to do is go kickboxing.

If you’ve made it this far, I want to leave you with a true token. I did speak to Texas on the phone, a year or so after it all went down, and he told me he was dating a girl who he thought he wanted to marry. Until they took a trip together, and he realized she didn’t make him laugh. He said he immediately missed me, and broke up with her after the trip.

He asked me if I would consider getting back with him. I told him no, wished him luck in finding someone like me, and hung up.

He is still single.

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Karma is with the bride.

Remember that post I wrote a few days ago…you know, about how I’m broke because of wedding season? Yeah, well all the brides-to-be must have gotten together and plotted a scheme against my life because I was complaining. But before I begin the rant on my latest failures…the Sex and The City episode I was referring to was “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Coincidentally, when I got home Tuesday night, that was the episode I had reached in my 3-week marathon of Sex and the City dvds.

The best part of the episode is when Carrie calls Kiera, leaves her a message saying “I’m getting married…to myself. And I’m registered an Monolo Blahnik,” and then she gets the shoes (as a wedding gift) from Kiera.

I need to do that.

Anyway, late last week I was doing the usual cleaning of the apartment, when I noticed a cluster of tiny black bugs near my kitchen sink. I figured they came from the drain, so I bleached my sink and drain, and called it a day. Well, that is until I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth and saw another cluster of little black bugs.

Weird.

The next day, when I got home from work, I spotted a few more…not near any sink. One on the wall, one on my couch. I was utterly disgusted, so I got out my trusty vacuum, put the tiniest attachment on it, and proceeded to vacuum my entire place…every molding, every corner, even up to the ceiling.

I was bug-free. Or so I thought.

I had been doing some major Googling, trying to figure out what these little beasts were—they were a little bigger than a flee, body of a beetle, smaller than an ant, didn’t fly. However, many pictures and descriptions I found didn’t help. I searched my flours and pastas for weavals, and found nothing, I searched my mattress for bed bugs, again, nothing.

Tuesday night, I had just wrapped up my nightly routine in the bathroom, waltzed into my bedroom, to see a little black bitch on my clean white sheets.

Oh no he didn’t.

I had had enough. I refused to live in a garden. So I whipped open my computer again, to try and find the answers. A few scrolls down, and I saw a suggestion—bugs that eat cat food. Aha!

So I marched into my kitchen, and flung open my cat cabinet. Eh, saw a few bugs, nothing to satisfy this as the source. The article said to store cat food in air tight containers. So, I found some tupperware for the time being, and prepared to pour. Starting with a box of Friskies, I poured.

What came out of that box was quite possibly the sickest thing I’ve seen in my life. Every single morsel of food was half eaten…and the bugs were there. Everywhere.

I cried.

I cried because it was gross. I cried because I hate bugs. I cried because my cat had been eating bug food and I failed to notice. When I looked in his dish, sure enough, bug city. I was a shitty mom.

I composed myself, grabbed a trash bag, and started to throw everything away—the box of Friskies, any cat treats, even a new bag of Iams (i checked it, to find it oddly bug-free, but I didn’t want to take any chances). I emptied my cats dishes and put everything in the dishwasher. My kitty was left with a hungry belly for the night.

When I got on the Friskies website, I saw many complaints of the same thing. Apparently, I purchased a box of Friskies that was infested, and I was being punished for it.

I could hardly sleep that night, unable to get the image of the bugs out of my head, worried about my cat’s health, and overall just feeling disgusting. At lunch yesterday, I made a trip to the pet store and bought all fresh catfood (I opened everything before I bought it, inspecting for bugs) and it wasn’t Friskies.

I also purchased a large collection of air tight containers. Now, all my catfood, flours, pastas, sugars, etc are stored away, safe and sound.

On my drive home from work last night, I got an e-mail from Jesus Belt, saying the magazine was cutting back on freelancers.

Just what I needed to hear.

When I got home, I saw a few straggling bugs, which I expected. I’m still waiting for the rest of the crop to die of hunger. However, I dragged myself around the kitchen, cleaning once again. I was exhausted of my recent life. I was upset about losing freelance money. And I was tired of cleaning up bugs.

So here I am. Stricken my karma. Because I’m a big, single, bitch. Where’s The Bieb when I need him?

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Happy Birfday, Gizzy!

Today is Gizzy’s birthday! And in honor of this special day, I’ve put together a collection of cakes:

I really don’t think anything I could say would do these baked goodies any justice.

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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.”

Umm…what?

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.

Hrmph.

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.”

Sigh.

“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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I need a wasp swatter.

I could see it from afar—a sparkling clean, white BMW. The kind with a cute little lip on the back of the hood, mimicking a spoiler. Only way cooler.

When I pulled up next to it, at the stoplight, it only got worse. Inside were two girls. Two of those girls.

You know when you’re at your house getting ready to go out, and you’re thinking you look really cute. You’re feeling the look. You strut to the car, and march right into the bar (or club, or coffee house, or bookstore, or grocery store) with all the confidence in the world.

Then you see one. A girl that makes you feel like absolute shit. Because she looks amazing. The kind of amazing that only she can look and you never could. Or well, maybe with daddy’s credit card, a trust fund, and a plastic surgeon on call, then you could.

I know (or at least I hope) I’m not the only one who must feel this way from time to time.

Now, don’t start thinking I have low self-esteem or something. I don’t. I think I’m cute—5’3, 120 pounds, a heavy spray tan, dyed brunette locks. But then, there are those girls. In fact, there are two types of women who intimidate me just by the way they look.

1. The natural beauties.

These ladies can roll out of bed, put their hair in a ponytail, put on jeans and a t-shirt and look good (think: Jennifer Anniston). That is not me. When I wake up, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck, my hair is in knots, and I’m usually in a horrid mood.

2. The plastics.

The bitches have the latest styles—of everything. They are, as J-Woww says, fresh-to-death. Processed hair, usually in long ringlets, skinny, tan, tall, new outfits, expensive purses, hot cars (think: the Kardashians).

I just will never and can never look like that. Yes, I color my hair. But that’s about it. I don’t wear a lot of makeup, and I can’t afford new clothes all the time. And when I can, I shop at Banana and JCrew, not Saks. Cute shoes for the bar almost never come into my budget. I wear the same heels to the bar until they fall apart. No, seriously.

A few weeks ago, I was out with my coworkers, when a group of plastics walked in. I asked one of the guys—what do you think of those girls? I could never look like that. He said, “yeah they look good. But I would never know what to say to one of those girls.”

Eh, good point. And yes, I know they probably live off their parents’ money or are strippers or something, while I make an honest living and pay for everything myself, which is why I can’t afford red-soled shoes and BMWs.

But still, when I pulled up next to that white BMW, in my Explorer that’s nearing it’s death, I felt like Avril Lavigne next to Lauren Conrad. I was on my way home from Target, my only outing for the day, as I was feeling like crap and really looking forward to a Saturday night on my couch. Then I saw these two girls, one blonde, one brunette, in their perfect car, perfect hair, pretty sunnies, fresh manicures…

I wanted to die.

I suddenly didn’t feel so cool about my night in. They were probably off to some huge mansion with perfect marble floors and huge closets, filled with the latest from BCBG. Then, they would go to some awesome night club, full of hot guys, and everything would just be perfect.

Sigh.

In college, there were a lot of girls like this in my sorority. Which is probably why I hated it so much. I had to work a lot to afford little things, like going out to dinner or to the bar, when most everyone else could charge it to a family credit card. Of course, I learned a lot about work and money because of that, but I feel like those same girls still live the same way and will probably never need to learn financial lessons. They will marry a replacement for daddy and live their lives accordingly.

There is only one thing that can solve this problem (aside from a wasp swatter):

Speaking of wasps, Brad picked one on The Bachelor last night. I was wrong from day one, and I was nothing but stunned. I know most of America just loved Emily, but I think she’s as boring as dirt and about as fun as a pity party. She didn’t even get excited when he proposed! Ugh.

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