Times are changin’


Okay, so forget Austin.

I’m over it.

Austin was fun, but multiply part one by two and three and I’m sure you can do the math.

Right now, I want to be at the bar playing pool. Why?

There’s sticks, there’s balls and they don’t belong to a skeezy guy.

What am I doing instead?

Pouring myself a glass of ice cold soda as I wait for the Google results of “How to cut a pineapple.” Yeah. True story.

While I’d love to tell you 4 non blondes style what exactly is going on, I can’t.

A) I don’t need to be drinking caffeine this late at night.

B) Does everyone already just arrive on this planet with the innate knowledge of how to cut a pineapple?

Pineapples are all spiky like they’re trying to warn you about something fruity, which is now interchangeable with fishy, which someone thought was interchangeable with suspicious. So yeah. Pineapples are all spiky like they’re trying to warn you about something suspicious like…

Hey. Open up this pineapple and you might find yourself drinking soda in the middle of the night instead of playing pool. How do you like them apples? You obviously don’t, because here you are with a fucking pine version of something that poisoned the purest of Disney princesses. Ick.

So here’s the thing. Times are changin’. I’ve heard people say it in the general “the world is gonna’ end” sort of way, but now I really believe it.

Times are changin’.

I’m losing my dream apartment. I’m losing my fave roommate Catman Connor. I’m losing weight. Most importantly, I’m losing this negative attitude.

So yeah, I’ll admit, I burnt my candle at both ends.

It’s completely gone now.

So in the future, when someone asks me to hold a candle to some swimsuit- model-resembling ex-girlfriend I can be all like…Sorry don’t have one.

But I’ll tell you what I do have. A pineapple. A motherfucking pineapple.

I’m not sure what the next few months have in store for me. It could be good. It could be bad. It could be…fruitful? Who freaking knows?

All I know right now is that…

I’m pretty nervous for my internship. I may need a storage unit for my shoes alone. I’m going to miss a lot of my friends next year. And…

Times are changin’.

But more on all this later, I’ve got soda to drink, pineapple to cut and time to change.

How To Cut a Pineapple Like a Badass


I Am Nothing If Not Practical

Humor, Lifestyle

I left my purse at the bar.

I fell and scraped my hand in an alley.

I was at some point in an alley.

I slept on my friend’s couch.

There are several missed calls on my phone.

There are several outgoing calls on my phone.

Where to begin…Well I typically end up falling because I almost always drunkenly decide at some point it is a good idea to start running.

Hey Savannah, what is a quicker way to get from point A to point B? Perhaps you should quicken your already very unstable step.

I feel like cops probably do not give me a public intox on account of it being so damn funny to watch.

I am now waiting for the bar to open so I can hopefully go retrieve my purse. I imagine someone turned it in realizing how broke I am. Everyone keeps asking me how much money I have in it and I’m like…None I just really like that purse.

Lord knows I could use a new driver’s license picture.

The only reason I took off my purse was because it was hanging over the toilet while I was trying to puke. Both puking and taking off the purse seemed like really sensible ideas at the time. I am nothing if not practical.

It is kind of a mystery to me why I left the bar at all considering all of my friends were still there. I mean…all of my roommate Connor’s friends were still there. I mean…my roommate Connor was still there ya know?

(If you are new to my blog and want to know more about Connor See Post: That’s My Roommate)

Once I realized I lost my purse, I think it struck me how drunk I was and I decided to cut my losses. Drunken me has tunnel vision to go home which is a really good idea when I have my keys.

Sober me thought I did not need my keys because I had my trusty roommate who has a very similar set of keys and who unfortunately was not with me when I for some unknown reason decided to leave the bar.

It was nice waking up and knowing that my roommate was worried about me but I always dismiss it like….No need to be worried, I just walked to my friend’s place…in an alley…where I fell…oh and have you seen my purse?

Not a big cause for concern.

I texted my friend to thank him for helping me rinse off my scraped hand and getting me a blanket and he said I seemed fine.

I sincerely think there is a deep part of me that is thinking Savannah you are drunk. You are drunk right now. Act cool okay? Then I do. It just comes that naturally to me.

Unfortunately no one ever realizes I am drunk unless I tell them. They always inform me how normal I seemed and I am like great…Well the next time I seem normal take me to the hospital because I have alcohol poisoning okay?!

It is always sort of a reverse situation when I am sober. I had one girl say she was surprised I remembered her because of how drunk I was when we met. It was also surprising for me considering I was not drinking at all that night.


My Weekend: Part 1

Dating, Humor, Relationships

After having a full day to recover and half of my Tuesday morning coffee, I am now prepared to tell you about my weekend…which most unfortunately has to start with Friday…Part 1 as I like to call it.

Friday night, I came home from work to celebrate my friend Leah’s birthday, only to be greeted by none other than…you know him, you hear about him and I’m not entirely sure how you feel about him…the Fire Whisperer. Beer in hand, he welcomes me into my own apartment offering me a beer which automatically smoothed over my mildly ruffled feathers.

After a shower and makeup prep in front of like 6 people at our apartment, we receive another guest…the Fire Whisperer’s hott blonde roommate, because let’s face it one hott blonde in his life was just not enough. In fact, his general inclination towards hott blondes suggests I should just get one myself.

My general approach to his ever-continuing presence in my life as of late has been none other than cordial. Hello, hey there, have a good day…you get the idea. Although I have installed a “help Fire Whisperer out if he really needs you” clause into my manifesto, I still felt there was no need to tell him what I had for lunch that day, what songs I was sinking my teeth into or why a chunk of my iPhone screen is MIA.

In honor of Leah’s b’day, we all headed to the bar driven by the FW himself. I quickly purchased a beverage then headed straight for the pool tables, because FW or no FW, that is just where this petite girl belongs. After nudging my way into a game of doubles, I found myself approached by the one and only…Dean. (See Post: Who The Fuck Is In My Bed Right Now?)

Drunken Dean, in the most adorable Southern accent you have ever heard, confesses his true feelings for me. I am beautiful. I am a great writer. Again, I am beautiful. etc; Unfortunately, this has become quite uncomfortable for my doubles partner who is desperately trying to make his way towards getting my phone number.

Dean leaves me and then returns several times, each time telling me I am “degrading” myself by hanging out with these guys…which I am by the way doing nothing of the sort. My head is always in the game.

Dean: I am leaving Savannah.

Me: Okay Dean.

Dean: No really, I am leaving. I am going to go now.

Me: Okay Dean, I will see you around.

Dean: (slowly walking away) I am leaving. (whips back around and turns towards my doubles partner) You’re just another blog post to her!

Despite being hilarious, the whole dramatic thing was quite endearing and definitely held major motion picture potential. The night did not end there.

After a rough night of avoiding the FW, an awful girl from high school and my own conscience which must have been stumbling around somewhere drunkenly, I was ready to head home.

The bar closed as I stood outside with the FW’s roomie, where she said these confusing words…

“I don’t know what you’re waiting on, you should just go.”

Her drunken state and mild tone suggested there were no mean intentions, but I was like…

Fuck, she’s right. 

I walked home which led to a lot of angry friends and some volume raising comments coming from the FW in my kitchen. I texted him an apology only to receive a fairly harsh text back saying how unwelcome he felt in my presence. I was like…You have stayed at my apartment several nights this week, how much more welcome can you be? I can hear your voice from my bedroom at 3 a.m., I am guessing that that’s your beer in my freezer and our alarms go off intermittently all morning until you become the first person I see after waking up…something tells me the Welcoming Committee has come and gone ya know?

Despite my general aversion towards his comments, I knew the convo was still a work in progress so the next morning I tried to explain myself.

After another fairly angry text calling me childish, I was just like…

Fuck, you’re really asking me to be mature right now?

To be honest, being cold-hearted was way more fun than I imagined and has led me to believe I have a much firmer grasp on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, having now seen and participated in the dark side for at least 3 full days of FW attendance. While I may seem to be back at sweet and sunny, I now find myself lighting candles more often, drawing pentacles in my notebook and hanging out in cemeteries where to my knowledge no family members or friends are buried.

I digress.

My courteous but not overly friendly disposition towards the FW had no cruel intentions, but were rather designed to extinguish my crush in a more permanent sense of the word. To me, this crush had become equally annoying and probably way more distracting, particularly when reading dystopian novels, watching action films and trying to study for my waste of time college coursework.

This crush just kept coming back to me like a fucking horseshoe. In fact, I was sure I would take it to the grave with me which is just fine because I’m so small my casket should have plenty of room for unrequited love, ones that got away, oh and regret…That will definitely be present, or past depending on how you look at it.

I have, however, been determined to put this crush to bed, no pun intended. Pun intended.

After playing the pity card, the FW seemed to understand the plight of a “trying to get over you” 20 something year old girl and all was maybe not forgiven/forgotten, but more than likely moved on from. Want to know what else was moved on from?

My crush.

Just like that, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Although I know getting over him did not happen instantaneously, his reaction to the night extinguished my crush…for good. I realized quickly that the only thing the FW and I needed to share was our love for pizza, annoyance with stupid people and our best friend…Catman Connor.

Dying for part 2? Me 2!

After you have your morning coffee, leave me a comment and we will see where My Weekend: Part 2 takes us.

I Feel Like My Cupcakes Are Smashed

Dating, Lifestyle, People

I’ve found that being a secretary is a lot like being the star player…of the blame game.  People always call you saying, “I called you last week!  You said your boss would get back to me!  It is now THIS week, no longer last week, and I still haven’t heard from him.  Did you even give him the message?”  Yes you stupid slut.  Now, did I give my boss the message?  Yes.  Has he gotten back to them?  No.  Have I reminded him of said message?  Yes.  Again, has he gotten back to them?  No.  But it’s obviously my fault, so feel free to blame me you stupid fucking cunt.  Rant over.

Who am I kidding?  My rant is never over.  Last night I worked my first shift as a bartender.  Due to it being a slow night, it actually went…..dare I say it….okay?  The shift actually went okay.  You know what else is okay?  Oooohh my let me tell you.  

The other night, I showed my roommate Connor (who by the way was not entirely thrilled by the nickname Catman) one of my articles.  He said…and I quote…fuck it I’m not using quotes.  He said the article was “okay” (changed my mind, I’m fucking using quotes).  I was like Okay, you sly okaying motherfucker.  You know what else is okay?  Your face.  Your face is okay…no no wait, I meant to say your mom.  Your mom is okay!  Okay?!  I looked up at him with my deepest, saddest puppy dog eyes and said, “It’s okay?”.  The face must have gotten to him because his explanation trailed off as he left my room.  I know that writing and criticism are sort of a package deal, but okay?  What the fuck does that even mean?  That’s the word I use in a text message preceding three dots to indicate my fucking sarcasm.  We all sometimes abbreviate it to just “k” so people really know we’re pissed.  Not only is this text one word, it’s also just one fucking letter.  That’s how little I care about you right now.  One letter’s worth.  You’re not even worth the full-out spelling…k?

Needless to say, I was disappointed.  No, I wasn’t disappointed in catman Connor.  I was disappointed in myself.  The article I’d written had prompted one of my least favorite words in the English language…okay.  It’s one of the rare words where you can add “fuck” in front of it, but it still doesn’t sound right.  Ahhhh, fuck Connor.  I’m so not OKAY with this!  This little half pint feels like her glass is half empty and she wants to get turnt up.  The glass is emptying further as she talks in third person.  

This week, I sort of hit rock bottom.  It caught me off guard because I wasn’t even aware that I wasn’t still at sea smooth sailing.  All this sudden, I’m in the mountains falling full speed with only one word in mind…”okay.”  Sorry, I hadn’t beat the horse dead quite yet.  I digress.  This week I felt like I was walking on eggshells.  Every single moment of every day, I felt like I could cry over the slightest things like Connor telling me my article was just okay, the lady on the phone complaining my boss hadn’t called her yet, or even the fact that by the time I got to work all the cupcakes in the break room were already smashed.  That’s how I feel.  I feel like my cupcakes are smashed.

As I said in my last post, I was bored with my straight hair.  I literally curled my hair and noticed virtually no difference.  Although as an added bonus, I did get a text message from a guy saying he liked my “new” hair.  Now with all my cupcakes smashed, do I have to break out an apron and start baking new ones?  How many fresh start metaphors do I have to make before I actually get a fresh start?  I want one of those moments where you flip to the next month on a calendar and get to see the new picture for the first time…or maybe one of those moments where all the clothes on your floor have been placed neatly back on their hangers…ooh or like when all the counters in your apartment are clean because Connor keeps bringing up your lackluster love life compared to his “way with the ladies.”  For the record, there is only ONE lady to be exact.  Just one Connor!  Just one freaking lady…I love that lady.

The worst part of all of this is, that after a long day filled with writing a horribly, non-APA formatted article, a drive to my hometown, bridal shower, bartending shift, and multiple intermittent crying sessions, I still could not go to sleep.  There I was at 3:15 a.m. thinking how Connor probably thought I stayed the night with someone (ya ya laugh it up), my article was just “okay,” and wondering how much my utilities bill would be this month.

I absolutely hate when I’m lying in bed tired, but can’t fall asleep.  I’m always like…Body, why aren’t you asleep right now?  I’m yawning..hint hint.  I’m fucking tired, why can’t you make this happen?  I did everything you asked.  I put on more comfortable clothing, I turned the lights out, I assumed the appropriate position…fuck I took my bra off!  What do you want from me?!!  Okay, reread that portion in italics excluding the first sentence and pretend I’m talking to an imaginary boyfriend.  That’s totally what she said.

Okay, that made me laugh.  Maybe some laughter is all I really needed start climbing up from the rockiest of bottoms.  I have been so preoccupied with master’s applications, newspaper articles, and my million jobs that I forgot to have any fun.  I did not listen to any of the advice in my last post except for curling my hair…which pretty much got me nowhere….except for a compliment text from a friend and a creepy bar attender that literally tried to throw a dollar at me.  Sadly, I accepted the dollar.  Give me a break, I work four jobs for a reason.  Remember when I mentioned the utilities bill?  Eek.  

I really wanted to award my skeeze of the day to the guy who threw the dollar at me, but he also tipped me like 120% of his bill soooo….not all that skeezy I guess…Or maybe, I’ve become a well-paid stripper and I didn’t know it.  One of the two.  So yeah, skeeze of the day goes to that guy throwing the dollar at me…Jeremy’s friend I call him. 


I’m Fucking Hungry…All The Time!

Dating, Lifestyle, People

I’m a quitter.  I quit my job bartending.  After being assigned three articles for the first issue of the school newspaper, MY VERY OWN weekly blog on the school newspaper website, and realizing my parents were actually more than supportive of my journalism career; I knew that I did not have time to mix in mixed drinks.  I knew catman (my roommate Connor) and the fire whisperer (my fluffly ex-boyfriend) would be disappointed in me for giving up so easily, but the truth is, I’d much rather be in front of the bar than behind it!  Turns out, it is illegal to drink from behind the bar…guess I should’ve seen that one comin.  Not to mention, I’m having the most intense pool withdrawals EVER…I can’t sleep at night because I’m thinking of shooting combos and scratching on the eight ball.  Sometimes I wake up in sweat asking myself if the game’s over.  I need a cue in my hands stat because I just can’t handle another night without pool.  I didn’t realize why I was stressing so much, then I realized playing pool had become my ultimate stress reliever.  Ex-boyfriend brings over his new girlfriend?  Go play pool.  Church is losing money and may not have enough to pay me?  Go play pool.  People are asking you for mixed drinks you’ve never heard of?  Can’t go play pool because I’m on the fucking clock!  I even bought a pair of patterned leggings with pool balls all over them.

Alright, let’s get down to the bottom line.  I’m bored.  I’ve been bored.  Of course you already know that since my last few blog posts have talked about riding shotgun in the car, opening wrongly addressed mail, and unenthusiastic skeezes.  Part of me resorted to throwback Thursdays because nothing new has been happening!  Even my straight hair has been lackluster.  It’s time to break out a curling iron because I’m ready for a change!  Although I’m excited about my new school blog, I’m still gonna need an outlet for all my fuck this’s and fuck that’s.  So fuck all of you, because I come from a long line of swearers and I gotta let out those urges to cuss.  Don’t worry, I don’t intend to continue the line of swearers by impregnating my perfect, cellulite-free body.  Okay, not perfect…but honestly, I’m not insecure.  Why do you think the bar manager hired me in the first place?  Surely not because I’m such a good bartender…I didn’t even know Captain Morgan was spiced rum…Don’t laugh, I only drink beer or whiskey.

So, what are my big plans to get out of this rut?  Well, I didn’t exactly think that part through, but here are some thoughts:

1. Go play pool.  I want it, I need it, I’m losing sleep over it.  That’s in the cards for tonight.

2. Schedule a friend get-together.  I want every friend of mine getting white girl wasted with me in my apartment…or black girl wasted, asian man trashed, or even mexican man gone.  I don’t care!  If that means someone ends up sleeping in my bed drunkenly instead of catman’s favorite fold out couch, then so be it!

3. Go on a date…or two…or three.  No, I don’t want to get to know you in your hotel room, come over for drinks/smoking after the bars, or be given a tour of your bachelor pad.  In fact, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t even want to go shoot pool with you.  Maybe after dinner…or a movie…or coffee..I don’t know what you dating people like to do, but those things seem more right.  It may not look like I eat much, but I’m fucking hungry…all the time!  Take me out to eat motherfucker.

4. Watch netflix.  Swarmed with meetings, work, and writing, I haven’t even had a chance to type past the n-e-t-f  URL in days.  I wanna watch tv…fuck!

5. Curl my freaking hair.  Straight hair just doesn’t suit my wild personality.  It’s time for bouncy curls that I can toss over my shoulder as I aim for the corner pocket.

Don’t hate me, but I don’t really have a skeeze for the day.  My schedule has been jam-packed with words like mandatory, responsibility, and beginning of the semester.  Don’t worry, I have plenty of skeezy posts coming your way as soon as I fill in my notice of two weeks at the bar!  Leave a comment…or don’t…I don’t fucking care!





Hall of Heroes

Dating, Lifestyle, People

I hate it when backstabbing Facebook pops up with misleading notifications.  You’re all like Yes!  People are liking my shit!  only to realize that people are actually liking other people’s shit.  You comment on one cute girl’s picture and a million notifications start popping up confirming that everyone else also thought that picture was cute as fuck.  Facebook has also started randomly notifying you of random people’s birthdays.  It’s always this awkward moment because at first you feel obliged like Man, maybe I should post on their wall telling them happy birthday, then you realize you have no idea who the fuck that person is thinking, Birthday wishes comin at ya from a facebook stranger.  Creeeeeeepppppper status.  Man, fuck you facebook.  Is it so wrong for me to want my facebook experience to be about me?  Cheers to low self esteem…just don’t expect me to mix the drink for said cheers…because I can’t.  Last night I had someone ask me for a Bombay and tonic and I was like, Bombay is a location.  I suddenly felt like a CIA agent Someone, this guy needs a location!  

My roommate and I live downtown and often get mail for a bunch of random companies that previously shared our address.  We recently received an envelope addressed to Hall of Heroes.  I looked at Connor, then at the envelope, and then at my reflection and stated “Looks like you’ve come to the right place.”  I quickly meowed, declaring myself as catwoman and was like wait, “If I am catwoman, what the hell are you gonna be?”.  Connor catman to the rescue right meeeeooooowwww!  After opening the mail, I began telling Connor about my first meeting with the school newspaper.  I volunteered to write 2 stories for the first issue, one about ways to get involved with religion on campus…hahahaha, I can hear your laughter from here!  To be fair, no one else volunteered…shocker!  My second one is about the best places to eat and drink which, let’s face it, is much more my speed.  If there is one thing this girl knows how to do, it is how to show you a night out on the town.  Just don’t expect your night on the town to end up in my bed…because that’s gettin old reeeaaalll fast.  Oh wait, did I forget to mention the new hide-a-bed couch I made my “boyfriends” carry up our two flights of stairs?  Funny you should mention it.  I think my roommate wants to kill me, because not only is this couch floral and originating in the 1970s, but is also heavy as fuck.  After the first flight of stairs, the boys took a break saying, “Well, this looks like a good place for the couch.”  The couch was my favorite price…free and I couldn’t help but to snatch up this offer as an alternative for my latest bed crashers.  Dean meet fold-out couch.

Today is fucking thursday and you know what means.  You know what that means right?  It’s time for a throwback to the good ole’ days back when I was not working four jobs and pining over an ex-boyfriend.  Four years ago today, I lost my virginity.  I’m just kidding, I have no idea what day it was.  Upstairs, inside the home of my high school sweetie’s parents, I lost my virginity.  There was one huge problem, I had my socks on.  While he was finishing up his ten second version of love making, my socks were completely covering my little size six feet.  It was awful.  Maybe I am just fixating on this because I was not entirely happy with the whole situation, but geez, you can get me out of my top but not my socks?  Anytime I have sex now, I make sure those constraining pieces of fabric are ripped from my feet in the sexiest way possible.  If I see those fluffy fabric surroundings anywhere near my feet, I always stop the guy like, “Whoah, whoah, I can’t do this.”  He freaks out and backs off.  “No, I just have to take my socks off.”  (takes socks off and turns Netflix on)  “You may continue.”  Socks are appropriate for some circumstances like puppetry, sliding on wood floors, and monkeys…but they are just not appropriate for sex.  I recently read this article in Cosmopolitan magazine that said socks can increase pleasure during sex.  The deep exhale from my laugh practically turned the page for me.  Say yes to protection…but no to socks.  Just because I can’t make a Cosmo, doesn’t mean I can’t read one.  Get your facts straight Cosmo…until next issue.

My skeeze of the day goes to a guy named Michael.

First Text from Michael (at 1:00 a.m.) : Would you wanna come over and get to know each other?

Me: The only person I hang out with at this time is my roommate.  Sorry.

Second Text from Michael (1:02 a.m.) : Do you wanna come over and have drinks?

Me: No.

Third Text from Michael (1:05 a.m.): Could I take you on a date sometime?


Need I explain?  Maybe it really is easy being skeezy.

Half Pint

Dating, Lifestyle, People

“Just let me sulk!” I yelled at Connor as he tried to pull me out of my bed.  Long-legged blondie, the object of the fire whisperer’s affection, was inside my apartment…just making herself right at home. And by making herself at home, I mean, again, she was in my fucking home!  The only thing she was making…was me crazy!  I had just gotten home from my first training session as a bartender (which we will discuss later) and all I wanted to do was have a beer, eat some popcorn, and blog from atop my kitchen counter.  But noooooo….there she was.  While I still succumbed to the beer and popcorn, I sat atop my counter liking every single facebook picture of what I’m sure is the freaking cutest couple that ever lived.  Like.  Like.  Like.  Oh that’s a good one too.  Even better.  Love this pose.  Man they are so fucking photogenic.  Aw, they must be so in love!  Oooh, look they went to Europe together, how fun!  I could just put you two cuties in my right skinny jean pocket. and just fuck my right skinny jean pocket life.  Here’s the thing, he likes her.  I know he likes her.  So, why do I suddenly want to pee on every piece of furniture in our apartment marking my territory?!

I like her.  She has this nice golden blonde hair, tall thin frame, and fuck…kind of a cute laugh.  Semi-cute laugh.  The worst part is, I can only come up with 2-3 cuss words with which to refer to her as.  Whore, cunt, slut, for those of you wondering.  Even for my acquaintances I can muster up 8-10, SNAP OUT OF IT SAVANNAH!  I guess what I’m trying to say is that…she’s not bad…not half bad…not even a fucking quarter bad.  Sure she treats the fire whisperer kind of shitty and disposable, but I probably would too if I looked like a fucking supermodel.  Did I mention she’s blonde?  In case you did not know, I am brunette.  That’s my picture at the top of this blog, how nifty?  The fire whisperer is love drunk over this supermodel and shortie blogger over here just can’t compete.  The older gentlemen (day drinkers at the bar) have already come up with a nickname for their newest bartender…half pint.  Creative right?  Half pint and blondie are not even on the same playing field.  Fuck not even in the same ball park.  Fuck not even in the same motherfucking universe.  She’s got five main squeezes and I’ve got five main skeezes.

To top it all off (the beer I mean…just kidding…bar joke), I am the worst bartender on the planet.  People come up asking for the craziest fucking things like, “Yo, can I get a sexed up sunrise.” and then I reply, “No, but you can have an ice cold beer on tap?” you fucker (I am still smiling).  My training session virtually taught me nothing.  He showed me how to change a keg but not how to use the fucking register?  My roommate Connor was like, “Savannah, a lot of being a bartender is just common sense.” to where I insecurely replied, “Maybe I don’t have that sense.”.  Were we supposed to come with six senses you fucker?  M. Night fucking Shyamalan sure thought so.

On the plus side, today is my first meeting with the school newspaper crew.  Although college football, unreasonable parking availability, and freshman dilemmas don’t exactly top my charts of importance; I won’t turn down any opportunities to write.  Although most of the people working there found my blog to be….entertaining…I can only assume that to be a euphemism for You won’t make it in the writing world.  But then again, when have I ever let what someone said stop me from doing what I want to do.  I drink root beer for breakfast, write blog posts directed towards ex-boyfriends, live with one guy roommate I’m not dating, and I paint my nails fucking white as fucking Snow White.  Basically, I just do whatever the fuck I want these days.  Except for telling blondie to leave my apartment…I would never do that…though I did kind of want to.

My skeeze of the day goes AGAIN to the fire whisperer for bringing over his never-girlfriend to his ex-girlfriend/best friend’s apartment.  I have feelings yo!  Did I just say yo?  What I meant is, I have feelings…yo.  Blondie will likely make another guest appearance at our apartment and I guess having another girl around to fight the good fight against male egotism would not be the worst thing in the world.  Could blondie and half pint someday unite against a common cause?  To be determined.  Until then, I have four jobs to work, two meetings to attend, and one sweet sweet apartment to inhabit!  Leave a fucking comment…if you want to…which let’s face it you probably don’t you stupid lame unexpressive fuckers!




Not Even For A Million Dollars

Dating, Lifestyle, People

For the record, I was NOT fishing for compliments in my last post when I said, “This post was boring as fuck.” but damn I reeled you fuckers right in!  Thanks for reading and keep those motherfucking comments comin you gullible fuckers!

There I was sitting with my friends at dinner (Sam-Connor’s NOT girlfriend/introducer of word skeeze, Connor- my awesome roommate, and Hunter- my fluffy ex-boyfriend who I will refer to as the fire whisperer).  Rather than talking about *whisper* rape like on my trip to KC, we decided to talk about a much more intellectual subject…sucking cock.  Connor asked Sam and I if, for one million dollars, we would suck the cock of any fine gentleman.  Sam and I quickly said “FUCK NO.”  Connor and the fire whisperer quickly replied, “WHY THE FUCK NOT?”  They both confirmed that they would suck any cock for one million dollars…then I was like, “What?  I can’t hear you from my ethical high horse.”  We are at a restaurant during this conversation surrounded by older adults and small children who keep shooting angry glances our way when they hear the words dick, cock, and suck coming from our table….which was virtually every other word.  Did I just hear them say sucking cock?  I know I just heard them say sucking cock.  “Honey, they are talking about cock sucking over there.”  I’ve become almost one hundred times more comfortable talking about sucking dick than I was before this dinner.  Here’s me thoughts (I accidently typed “me” instead of “my” but I’ve decided to just go with it) If you start out sucking cock for one million dollars, then what would you do for a billion dollars?  You need somewhere you can move up from…like I will let you gently grope me for one million dollars, then we will see where things go.  If you want a kitten, start out by asking for a horse.  You get my drift?  Then came the discussion about glory holes…christ.


I told my old roommates about this conversation last night (Conner- my other Conner, notice it’s spelled with an “e” and Sean- who prefers to be called Preston on my blog for no apparent reason).  I couldn’t believe how similarly the conversation went.  They agreed they would suck any dick for one million dollars and would probably do it for much less.  Preston even threw out a $100 minimum, adding later that it’s “just like licking your arm.”  It almost disturbingly is.  He suggested that there’s men out there with a million dollars just waiting for someone to suck his dick so he can give them the million dollars…Oh Preston, guess you should suck every guy’s dick just in case.  As with my other friends, this topic somehow led us to glory holes…that’s some fucked up shit.  On the plus side, we were at a bar, which is a slightly more acceptable place to talk about sucking dick right?  After bragging to them that I’ve never been refused at a pool table (thanks to pool players 1-4 if you’ve been keeping up with my blog), Conner said they will refuse me once he tells them I won’t suck cock…not even for a million dollars.  Touche Conner.


So…I have an addiction.  What is it?  What is it?  What is it, you ask?  I have an addiction to making drunken phone calls.  I know that I’ve made some improvements because I no longer limit these phone calls to ex-boyfriends, but have extended these to my friends, old roommates, new roommate, and other random contacts in my phone.  Drumroll please…I made a drunken phone call to a girl last night, Kelsey.  Kelsey is my blonde friend with T-swift hair and a no-shame way of listening to pop music.  I was like, “Kelsey I made three drunken phone calls last night and you were one of them.  You should be honored to have made the cut.”  Forget facebook friend requests, if you want to confirm our friendship, just ask yourself if I have ever drunk texted/called you.  If the answer is yes…we are true friends.  The more frequently I choose to contact you in my drunken state likely indicates the growth in our relationship.  Kelsey, our friendship has really blossomed.

With last night’s clothes scattered across the floor, my high heels on the kitchen counter, and halfway decent second-day makeup; I’m headed to tax free weekend to shop until I drop…and when I say drop…I mean bass.  

Why Can’t I Be Tall?


I love that I always see the best looking guys at the gas station because there is almost nothing I can do about it under those circumstances.  “I notice you too are fueling you vehicle with regular unleaded gasoline.”  “Soooo would you want to share this diet coke I’m buying…over dinner….before a movie?”  “No?  Cool, me neither.”  Don’t worry I’ve already had every conversation with myself that I could possibly ever have with you.  I’m always talking to my friends like, don’t you know I already had this conversation for us?  You said you didn’t want go to this thing, I said I didn’t care and really wanted you to come, you said you had to do this other thing, I said you can do that other thing later and I’ll even help you, you said I don’t know, I said I think you do know…so can we just skip to the part where you are coming with me?

I hate hate hate when you are signing up for an account on a website and you start typing your new password when this pure EVIL message pops up saying Too Short.  Are you fucking kidding me right now?  I’m not even finished typing yet!  Get off my back!  My anger could also be stemming from my over-sensitivity to the word short.  Even the world wide web knows I’m vertically challenged.

Short Girl Problems:

1.Sometimes when I walk into a bar, coffee shop, or other public place, I immediately sense it.  Somewhere in that public place, he has spotted me.  The short guy in the room has spotted me.  I can just feel him thinking, Oooooooohhhhhh yyeeeaaaahhhh, target acquired.  I am shorter than him and unbelievably cute, meaning that I have already met 2 out of his 2 criteria for sleeping with me.  I just hope he can feel ME thinking, Access denied.

(FYI: I don’t discriminate based on height when dating.)

2.Everyone in the world has this innately desperate need to inform me of my height.  They are always like, “Awwww you’re so short.”  Then I’m like, “Awwww I fucking hate everything about you, you fucking tall fucking freak.”  Excuse my language.  Or don’t.

3.Sometimes I’m not tall enough to ride the roller coaster….of life.

4.Sometimes, although I fight the urge desperately, I have to recognize that my height often means my head is going to meet the level of some basketball player, Lebron wannabe crotch.  (For those of you who read my previous posts…that has to be on the rape spectrum somewhere.)

 5. Not only does my face look like I am twelve….and a half years old, but my height confirms that I may not be of legal drinking age so you should probably stare at my driver’s license for twenty minutes diverting your focus from me…back to the id…then to me…back to the id…then to me…well you get the IDea (get the pun?)  But go ahead, continue looking at me like I’m smuggling drugs across the border…

(FYI: I am 22 years old, look at my bachelor’s degree bitches.)

Don’t get me wrong, I love being short…like more than life itself, but these things get pretty damn irritating!  What does a girl have to do to be 5’6…and blonde…and blue-eyed… (sorry I’m trying to breed the fittest, whitest population here).  Just kidding, I’m not Hitler (most days), but really…Why can’t I be tall?  (tall people, collectively, are my skeezes of the day)

Hey, before you go, I have an idea!!!  Share this post!  Better yet, leave a comment you fuckers!

Are You A Hipster?


If you are reading this blog post, you are probably a hipster.

What was that you say? I’m not a hipster.

Don’t even bother denying it, because that will confirm even further what we already knew.  You are a hipster.

Two hipsters walk into a bar………………………….and one of them was you.

How many hipsters does it take to screw on a light bulb?  Just you.

Knock knock, who’s there?  Hipster.  Hipster who?  Hipster YOU.  YOU are a  hipster.

Let’s start of with some foolproof methods for determining your hipster status.

1. You drink PBR.  I drink the ole Pabst because it is cheap, only $2 at bars in my area, meaning I can get arrested for drunk driving for under $10.  I drink PBR because I am poor.  If you are poor, you are at risk for becoming a hipster.

2. You wear glasses.  Prescription or non-prescription it doesn’t really matter.  Having impaired vision or desiring it indicates that you are a hipster.  Blind people are automatically assumed to be hipsters, as they reject sight feeling it is too mainstream.

3. You have multiple piercings.  Deciding to strategically place a hole in your skin suggests that you reject society’s norms and must be a hipster.  (Pending: Making decisions may also suggest you are a hipster.)

4. You are a human.  Cats, dogs, and other feral animals cannot be classified as hipsters because they sustain on doing mainstream things such as eating and drinking.  If you are human, you run the risk of being a hipster.

Didn’t meet the above criteria?  Call 1-800-HIPSTER and for the ultra low price of $29.95, you too, can become a hipster.  But wait, there’s more!  If you call in the next five minutes, we will include a free beanie!

The first time I got called a hipster, I was a little confused.  I was like, what the fuck is a hipster?  I mostly thought it was a style of jeans.  There must be some sort of bad connotation with the word, but I’m not really sure what it is.  If you know, enlighten me!  Moral of the story: Don’t let anyone define you as a hipster without your consent?

My skeeze of the day goes to a guy I met in Kansas City, Trevor, with the most hipster haircut I’ve ever seen.  I can’t find the picture at the moment but, believe you me, it was a very hipster haircut!