Did life Just Happen?
If life is what happens while you're busy making other plans, I must have the greatest life ever! The past week, perhaps even few weeks, have been so absurdly busy. When it rains it pours, and while I spend no less than 49 lonely Saturday nights per year on my couch wishing I had a real life, all the social events I want to attend are clustered on three or four dates. How do my friends, without knowing each other, all plan events for the same nights? Nights that aren't even holidays?!? Irrelevant. Crazy incidents have ensued, and I shall briefly highlight them here. Now.
Like a Bandit
Making out does not count as hooking up! As a real hussy, I hated it when I intently listened to people's stories about their "hook up" at a bar/party/frat house/bus stop, only to find out that by "hook up" they meant kissing and I will not be getting any of the torrid details I anticipated. How dare you disappoint me with your non-sluttiness?!?!
Since I haven't had sex since Thanksgiving, and even nuns get more ass than me, I am now most disappointed in my own non-sluttiness. Time to unleash my inner make out slut. In the past month, I've made out with at least five people. Prior to the past thirty days, that never happened to me. I haven't made out with someone that I didn't end up fucking since the 11th grade. What the hell is going on?
Drinking is Bad; Jenny Eat Something
Nothing encourages me to make out with strangers like booze. An obvious pillar of self-control, I lose most of the characteristics people normally associate with me when I drink. Expletives spew from my mouth, followed mere hours later by vomit. Okay, the first part of that is the same when I'm sober. Or is it the second? Moving on. Normally reserved and quiet to everyone who does not know me intimately, I morph into a cliche drunk girl like a werewolf.
On Sunday night, I met up with friends at what is, in my humble opinion, the greatest bar in history. First, it has no sign. Telling someone you've been there is like bragging that you know how to find it. I dig this form of elitism. Second, their beer list is significantly larger than their menu. Third, most of these beers cannot be found at other bars. Forth, their menu, though small, features fried pickles! Fifth, they have Velvet Underground and Magnetic Fields on their jukebox. Wow. Just wow. Try as I might, I could not find a single flaw in this establishment. Even though I left before the chef gave my friends free fried pickles, I'm not bitter. That's how incredible this experience was. Now no one must ever find out about this bar so that it's not ruined by asshats in argyle sweaters and hipster jeans.
Monday night, I attended a pub quiz. I think I got every single answer wrong. I also yelled "whore" at some poor man walking by on the sidewalk. I hugged the bartender because I forgot to tip him last time I was there. Hugs are almost as good for currency as dollars. I also created the greatest nickname of all time. Special shout out to my good friend Jew Box. Go me. I also managed to get so drunk that I ate four Fig Newtons, which I despise. Then I went home, sent some drunken text messages, threw up Fig Newtons, and passed out on my bed. Kneeling in front of my toilet and staring into the abyss, I realized that the most significant relationships of my life have been with a man who just moved to another state, a man who never loved me even though he knocked me up, and a man who claims to love me yet lives with another woman. Wallowing, I'm grateful I managed to apply my Go Smile. At 4 am, I woke up racked with anxiety over my intoxicated behavior. I couldn't calm down, and consequently, did not go back to sleep. To round out 24-hours of poor decision making, I attempted to kill my pain with carbs. I consumed at least an egg McMuffin, three bagels with cream cheese, a piece of cake, a cupcake, a handful of M & M's, Cheese Its, Teddy Grahams, 4 cookies, half a Butterfinger, and a granola bar. That's on top of the food I had intended to eat for the day--salad, grilled chicken, yogurt, etc. My hang over went away. My crippling self-analysis and criticisms did not.
I wish any of those men were here right now so I could tell them to get the fuck out.
Like a Bandit
Making out does not count as hooking up! As a real hussy, I hated it when I intently listened to people's stories about their "hook up" at a bar/party/frat house/bus stop, only to find out that by "hook up" they meant kissing and I will not be getting any of the torrid details I anticipated. How dare you disappoint me with your non-sluttiness?!?!
Since I haven't had sex since Thanksgiving, and even nuns get more ass than me, I am now most disappointed in my own non-sluttiness. Time to unleash my inner make out slut. In the past month, I've made out with at least five people. Prior to the past thirty days, that never happened to me. I haven't made out with someone that I didn't end up fucking since the 11th grade. What the hell is going on?
Drinking is Bad; Jenny Eat Something
Nothing encourages me to make out with strangers like booze. An obvious pillar of self-control, I lose most of the characteristics people normally associate with me when I drink. Expletives spew from my mouth, followed mere hours later by vomit. Okay, the first part of that is the same when I'm sober. Or is it the second? Moving on. Normally reserved and quiet to everyone who does not know me intimately, I morph into a cliche drunk girl like a werewolf.
On Sunday night, I met up with friends at what is, in my humble opinion, the greatest bar in history. First, it has no sign. Telling someone you've been there is like bragging that you know how to find it. I dig this form of elitism. Second, their beer list is significantly larger than their menu. Third, most of these beers cannot be found at other bars. Forth, their menu, though small, features fried pickles! Fifth, they have Velvet Underground and Magnetic Fields on their jukebox. Wow. Just wow. Try as I might, I could not find a single flaw in this establishment. Even though I left before the chef gave my friends free fried pickles, I'm not bitter. That's how incredible this experience was. Now no one must ever find out about this bar so that it's not ruined by asshats in argyle sweaters and hipster jeans.
Monday night, I attended a pub quiz. I think I got every single answer wrong. I also yelled "whore" at some poor man walking by on the sidewalk. I hugged the bartender because I forgot to tip him last time I was there. Hugs are almost as good for currency as dollars. I also created the greatest nickname of all time. Special shout out to my good friend Jew Box. Go me. I also managed to get so drunk that I ate four Fig Newtons, which I despise. Then I went home, sent some drunken text messages, threw up Fig Newtons, and passed out on my bed. Kneeling in front of my toilet and staring into the abyss, I realized that the most significant relationships of my life have been with a man who just moved to another state, a man who never loved me even though he knocked me up, and a man who claims to love me yet lives with another woman. Wallowing, I'm grateful I managed to apply my Go Smile. At 4 am, I woke up racked with anxiety over my intoxicated behavior. I couldn't calm down, and consequently, did not go back to sleep. To round out 24-hours of poor decision making, I attempted to kill my pain with carbs. I consumed at least an egg McMuffin, three bagels with cream cheese, a piece of cake, a cupcake, a handful of M & M's, Cheese Its, Teddy Grahams, 4 cookies, half a Butterfinger, and a granola bar. That's on top of the food I had intended to eat for the day--salad, grilled chicken, yogurt, etc. My hang over went away. My crippling self-analysis and criticisms did not.
I wish any of those men were here right now so I could tell them to get the fuck out.
posted by The Husskateer at 8:29 PM
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