Who does that?!

Dating, Humor, Relationships

Well. I’ll start with Sunday night.

I got extremely drunk.

No.

Changed my mind. I’ll start with Friday night, which conveniently enough for you starts with the exact same sentence.

I got extremely drunk.

Fuck it. Let’s just fucking start with Thursday. Because prior to a full bottle of champagne, 5-10 shots of whiskey and a few beers I’m sure I nursed all the way back to health, there was a Thursday night.

Thursday Night

I went over to my friend Kelsey’s (my cute blonde friend for those of you who don’t know) for a harmless girls movie night. But I’m guessing you’re aware I didn’t add the word “harmless” in the last sentence for no reason.

Oh there’s a reason alright.

I walk into Kelsey’s house (again without knocking because I am apparently the most entitled fucking motherfucker on the planet) and plop myself on a chair opposite to her male roommate. Let’s call him KMR (Kelsey’s male roommate)? Eh?

I’m a mess. No makeup. My jacket is falling off my shoulder. And I’m like 82.3% sure this guy (KMR) hates me. So naturally I had to convince him that he didn’t.

I start perpetually interrupting his studying with questions like…What kind of music do you like? What are you doing tonight? What a great joke you just made? What do you think….ABOUT THE FACT THAT I AM CLEARLY NOW FLIRTING WITH YOU?!

I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s fucking stupid. I think that I am freaking role playing in the role of Spain versus the freaking Aztecs because this is what I like to call a freaking CONQUEST.

Anyhow, I planted seeds that I really had no intentions of watering in the next 48 hours, but then someone freaking handed me a full water pot and I was all like…guess I should do something with this. So I did.

Friday Night

I can hear the rain on the rooftop, I’m flipping digital book pages with my finger and enjoying a nice little evening with a girl I like to call “Boring Savannah.”

You see. Boring Savannah is a lot like me. Brown hair. Petite. Easy on the eyes.

But let me tell you a little something about Boring Savannah! Boring Savannah only aims those easy eyes at literature. Accompanied by grilled cheese sandwiches- the kind which are made from the comfort of Boring Savannah’s home.

But then.

Low and behold. In walks Wild Savannah with her thigh high boots, YouTube eye shadow tutorials and a little chalk on her hands from shooting pool. Before Boring Savannah could even say anything, she was in the shower shaving her legs, out of the shower stabbing herself with eyeliner and out the door with a short skirt on a windy night.

So, watering pot in hand, I headed back to Kelsey’s to continue my lame attempt at flirting and also to drink. Yeah. Definitely to drink.

I polished off a bottle of champagne and was feeling buzzed, but not enough so to be dragged to a country bar where cowboys swing you around for what feels like hours then buy you a beer that resembles water.

I realized trying to connect with Kelsey and her friends or her roommate’s friends was tougher than I thought it would be. So I cut my losses and headed home.

No sorry, that wasn’t me who headed home. Who was it that headed home? Oh wait. Now I remember. Boring Savannah went home.

But Wild Savannah. She definitely went to her favorite bar for a night of pool-shooting, whiskey-drinking, boy-torturing fun. And it was. Seriously. It was a really fun time.

The bar is about to close. I’m closing my tab. This was so much fun. I spent way too much money on alcohol. Totally worth it. Why is KMR here?

Then KMR’s all like….”Wanna get outta here?” (or at least some version of that. Again, I spent a decent amount of money at the bar. In other words, your girl was hammered!)

Then I was all like…I mean yeah. The bar’s closed. Why would I stay here? You know how bartenders are always saying…”You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” Well I went home.

I just took ole KMR with me.

So we walk to my place and I’m not really sure what all we talked about. If I had to guess, it was something like…Are you sure I’m pretty? Really, do you think I’m pretty? What was it that you said earlier…about me being pretty? Say, what do you think about us talking about me being pretty all night until I forget and then start the whole thing over again tomorrow? Great. I should be available too.

Anyhow we reach my place, where I give my absolute worst attempt at a one-night stand. Which, let’s face it, is not really surprising considering the lack of experience.

But anyhow, it doesn’t really work. I mean everyone’s undressed. All the right parts are here. Seeds were planted. Plants were watered. I don’t fucking know why I can’t do this right now.

I literally walked out of the room. Got a glass of water. Sat on my couch. And drunkenly had a whole nature versus nurture debate in my head.

Okay that’s not entirely true.

I did walk out of the room, get a glass of water and sit on my couch. But instead of falling somewhere in the middle of nature and nurture, I had a minor mental breakdown. The poor guy left my apartment with a wicked one-liner and had to walk all the way home.

You know those rom-com movies where the male character tries to have sex with some slutty girl but he can’t go through with it because he’s still in love with the lead actress. Well. It was sort of like that.

Except for I’m the male character and KMR is the slutty girl.

It took me trying to have a one night stand with him to realize that I am still very much broken hearted.

And not about one guy. Or two guys. Or my laptop dying. My heart is just broken. There is no real rhyme or reason. It’s just broken.

I kind of feel like it’s one of those times when no one tells you that there is lipstick on your teeth or that your shirt is inside out. Could NO ONE have told me that I was broken hearted? Seriously?

For months, everyone’s been all like…Keep it up dollface. You go girl! I even think I heard Alicia Keys yell-singing about fire in the background.

HELLO? Lipstick is on my teeth. My shirt is inside out. If this girl is on fucking fire you should probably call the fucking fire department!

I just wish it didn’t require me drunkenly humiliating myself to finally realize and openly admit that I am….broken hearted.

It’s just.

Fuck.

Saturday

I woke up early after a drunken night.

My first instinct is to go jogging, which was sort of awful because Wild Savannah often turns into a much less fun version of herself called Hungover Savannah. But it was sort of ideal because I needed to go retrieve my car.

I jog for miles, only to end up at an old swing set where I used to hang out with Ben (an ex- friend/boyfriend/someone I couldn’t appropriately express affection to) after midnight.

While I thought it would bring back all the good memories of the time Ben and I spent together, it actually brought in a cold front when I remembered him telling me his feelings for me and then crying when I couldn’t return them. I completely stopped talking to him.

Side note: His swing was broken. Metaphorical? I think not.

I swung back and forth for a while listening to “Vienna,” by Billy Joel, which I sometimes feel is the saddest song ever written. Although I know it’s not.

I had to stop swinging because, again, I was hungover, and it had also begun to rain on my swing set parade.

I spent the remainder of my day slut-shaming myself to my friend Andy and working a shift that I forgot I’d volunteered for three months ago.

Sunday

Sunday night I receive texts from three different people asking to hang out, and I don’t want to say no to any of them.

I quickly cooked up a group hang and landed myself back at the bar in the midst of hushed conversations.

On my left is my good friend, let’s call him KT.

I’m trying to explain to him the KMR event and my newest heart condition as quietly as possible.

On my right is a new friend, let’s call him Jake.

Jake is trying to confess his romantic feelings for me as quietly as possible.

Across from us are a couple, let’s call them Sonny and Cher. Cher is telling everyone at the table that she thinks Sonny, her boyfriend, has a “crush” on me. She is not being as quiet as possible.

On my left, KT is telling me that my lack of sexual exploit is hurting the sexual liberation of women. Basically that I need to live life a little more and that it may indeed free me of my heart condition.

On my right, I’m telling Jake that I’m not interested in anything more than friendship. Hello? Did you not hear about the heart condition?!

I mean, I know I’m not like bed-ridden surrounded by flowers, but hey, it’s still happening ya know?

Across from me, I’m just freaking speechless. I mean. What is the appropriate response when someone thinks their own boyfriend likes you?

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that, I’m a little mad.

I’m mad that I can’t have one night stands. I’m mad that guys who don’t even know me, think they double like me (like-like as opposed to just liking). I’m mad that my friend feels insecure in her relationship.

And mostly, I’m mad that I didn’t knock on Kelsey’s door. Who does that?!

Dramamine

Travel

Warning: This post…along with all my other posts now that I think about it…is not appropriate for all audiences.  If you are offended by racial, religious, or sexual jokes (the only kind of jokes); then this blog is not for you.

Cunt, slut, whore, bitch.  Only the first four words that come to mind when you think of her…and by her, I mean the family favorite.  Sometimes she’s your niece, sister, cousin, aunt, or in-law, but most importantly, she is never EVER you.  You get a master’s degree and she gets a doctorate.  You wear a c-cup and she’s rockin DD’s.  You win ten awards and she gets best overall.  She’s one-three times upping you in everything you do.  Shadow meet life. She’s often blonde and has a tendency to seek out weaknesses.  Out this July and coming to a theater near you…she is…the family favorite.

Although both facing the inner battle with our archnemesis, the family favorite, Samantha (the introducer of the word skeeze) and I still managed to have a great weekend.  This includes the following:

Kansas City Royals baseball game– I had no idea that all the players would be foreign, and by foreign I mean hispanic.  They trick you with first names like Josh, James, and Tyler…so you’re like yeah, these are my people.  Then BAM, Perez has two outs, Gonzales is chillin on third base, and who knows what the fuck ole Salvador’s up to.  Regardless it was fun…Olé, touché motherfuckers!  I also have recently wondered if they play the song Royals by Lorde at their games…seems appropriate.

Nelson Atkins museum– FYI, Jesus Christ not only died once for your sins, but instead gets nailed to the cross in every single fucking room of this museum.  I fail to understand the artistic fascination with a long-haired man nailed in t-formation, unless said long-haired man is rockin a 6-pack and killer biceps.

Modest Mouse concert– This is the kind of place where each tall man is assigned to one short girl, being forced (by means of waterboarding) to stand directly in front of them the entire concert.  Always a pleasure fellow concert viewers.

 

One of things I realized on my trip, was my friends’ unnatural and mildly disturbing infatuation with the concept of rape.  Everything we talked about somehow led us back to one topic….rape.  We eventually created a rape spectrum, where we could judge things based on where they fell on the spectrum.  Like…oh he touched you there…that’s definitely gonna fall somewhere in the middle of the rape spectrum.  For future posts, I plan to utilize this spectrum.  It did, however, lead us to coining a particular phrase, one which I think you will like.

“It ain’t easy being skeezy.” – said by my roommate Connor (my previous skeeze of the day)

This brings me to my favorite part of the post…My skeeze of the day goes to the guy sitting behind me at the Royals game.  He went on and on about how ugly high-waisted shorts were.  I’m wearing high-waisted shorts you stupid motherfucker!  Take two steps back…then take two steps forward…pat your head…now admit you’re wrong motherfucker!!!! For the record, my high-waisted shorts looked stellar.  I will be posting a clip later today from my favorite Modest Mouse song played at the concert, “Dramamine”.