Posts tagged as:

bad decisions

Don’t look at me like that

July 23, 2011

When I was younger, maybe from about age seven to age thirteen, I would wish for two main things. A wallet that dispensed endless cash and some sort of something – potion, incantation, electric shock, whatever – that would make me irresistible to all boys. Of course, neither materialized. I had to settle for middle class luxuries like name brand cereal and a garishly pink, phone-shaped phone book – get it – sparsely populated with the numbers of boys who didn’t want me to call.

Fast forward about twelve years and things are a little different. I’m nowhere close to having that wallet, although steady income is certainly close enough for me. As for being irresistible, well, that’s debatable.

I mean, I did just hear from a guy who begged to eat my pussy, cancelled a month-long road trip because he was scared I’d find someone else, and thought I was so ‘amazing’ that someone must be playing a joke on him. All after meeting me once. More than two weeks after rejecting him on all fronts, I wake up to this text:

“It’s Chris. I’d like to see you again. You can be straight up with me and say no. I understand. That’s life but I don’t think we gave each other a chance.”

I think I’ll stop wishing for that potion now.

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Maybe this is why he broke up with me?

July 7, 2011

This morning, I was looking through photos of happier times. But not really because my Photobooth is like a grainy series of ‘Shut-in who wears the same clothes every day and one time, took them off in an attempt to be sexy but that didn’t work because her face is in double chin mode and why didn’t I delete that?’

But I did come across this:

And my heart stopped. Not because it looks like I’m wearing blackface (okay, sort of) but because fuck, I left my sex doll at my old apartment. And I’ve already lost my best friend, I can’t lose my sole outlet for sex, too.

So I panic. And then I email my ex.

No response yet. This might get ugly.

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No one wants to have sex with me and that’s okay I swear

April 19, 2011

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

 

*We follow each other on Twitter

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How I lost weight by playing Starcraft

April 6, 2011

A few months ago, I bought black jeans. They were the first I’d owned as an adult and as such, I didn’t plan on pairing them with a tucked in Daffy Duck t-shirt. Straight leg, 7 For All Mankind, size 8. The only problem was that, when I tried them on minutes after having them delivered, they didn’t fit. I mean, technically I could get them zipped but they made my waist look like an overflowing bowl of oatmeal and turned my ass into an innie.

I was crestfallen. I don’t obsess over how much I weigh, but at the same time, I love being a size 8. It’s the ideal size for me but when I couldn’t fit into these, I reluctantly accepted it and put them back in the box to be returned.

Around the same time, my boyfriend and I were at Target for another one of our routine visits to pick up one specific thing but leave with 11 things that are completely unrelated. So, since we were there for paper towels, we ended up bringing home two copies of Starcraft II. Even though I do really enjoy a good self-sabotage, I was completely against buying the game. The conversation went something like this:

HIM: Let’s get Starcraft, we had so much fun with the last one.

ME: No. I don’t want to have to be cut out of our apartment just so I can be weighed on a livestock scale and then watch them throw away my Pringles.

HIM: It won’t be that bad.

ME: Define “that bad.”

HIM: I’ll make sure you get to keep your Pringles.

ME: Not helping.

HIM: We’ll be responsible with it.

ME: Last time we played Starcraft, we never had sex, we only left the apartment to get pizza and I think you developed lower back problems.

HIM: So is that a no?

Starcraft, for those of you don’t know, is a real time strategy game made by Blizzard – the same people responsible for World of Warcraft. This means that, like WoW, Starcraft’s main objective is to make you fat beyond your wildest dreams. And if it doesn’t make you fat, it will give you acne in places never thought possible, social anxiety and/or an unnatural attraction to Funyuns.

It looks like this:

The objective: collect more resources than your opponents and then kill them with race-specific units (Protoss, Zerg and Terran). Kind of like Monopoly but with more blood and fewer beauty contests.

I don’t deny that Starcraft is a highly compelling game, despite the fact that 80% of the build order is the same every single time. But the independent variables are just ample enough that you keep coming back without gaining much, other than new methods for your opponent to call you a ‘cunt fag.’ And the slice of hope that 20% of your game – what, on average, amounts to maybe seven minutes – will be marginally different is what motivates a two hour time suck.

But, as you can tell, I’m playing it anyway. And as I’ve already revealed – one of the reasons for that is because I’m actually lose weight doing it. It’s simple, really, and I don’t even have to do butt clenches in my computer chair. The secret comes down to delayed gratification – which can be applied to anything. Before agreeing to buy Starcraft together, my boyfriend and I made a promise to each other that if we wanted to play, we would have to take a walk around the neighborhood for approximately 30 minutes.

Sadly, since installing this rule, I’ve probably never been in better shape. After a while, we stopped associating walking with Starcraft and began exercising on our own initiative. On the surface I thought it was great to kind of cheat the expectation that participating in online gaming meant that you were destined for a lifetime of elastic waist jeans.

Not only am I at least five years away from that reality, but I’m now regularly wearing the black jeans that previously looked like compression stockings. Recently, I took the opportunity to try them on again and not only do they fit, but there’s enough room for me to be three months pregnant without even knowing it.

But, seriously, I hope it doesn’t come to that because I don’t know how to walk that off.

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If I have a girl I’m naming her Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club

April 3, 2011

In February of last year, I stopped eating fast food (In-N-Out doesn’t count). A few months after that, I stopped going to franchises altogether. It has nothing to do with being a vegetarian, food allergies or Morgan Spurlock. Simply put, fast food made me feel awful. And the food from casual dining franchises didn’t make me feel much better.

So I swore it off. Fast food was easy since I never really liked the stuff anyway (You’ll always be my baby, Burger King Croissan’wich). But franchises were harder to shake since they typically know just the right mix of carbohydrates, fat, and stone veneer interiors to make you feel fancy. To move the process along, I started a mental ‘never again’ list of franchises that I banned myself from after particularly bad visits. The first draft looked like this:

Olive Garden – Diarrhea. Again.

Red Robin – Experienced severe headache and nausea after fifth basket of bottomless fries. Should be illegal.

Applebee’s – Found a tag in my food that came from the bag that they microwaved it in.

Red Lobster – Bad service, average food, will miss the Cheddar Bay Biscuits.

Chili’s – I really think they’re trying to kill me with the Southern Smokehouse Bacon Big Mouth Burger.

It seemed that they all had two things in common – unremarkable food and a threat that I might shit my pants. After a while, it became really easy to kick franchises out of my life, too. So I did. And I don’t regret anything. I feel great, my pants fit and I no longer worry that I’ll die in a TGI Friday’s.

However, sometimes I slip up. And by ‘slip up’ I mean that I get something with a lot of bacon on it, dip it in whatever non-dairy based ‘ice cream’ treat I can find and then cry with the wrappers in my arms, wondering why I ever said goodbye to ‘#5 With a Biggie Fry and Apple Pie Aubrey.’

So, about the Biggie Fry. It showed up this past Friday night and brought along a Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club, made just for me by Wendy’s.

Get your tissues or socks or banana peels ready, because I’m about to describe what’s going on with this sandwich. First, there’s a tenderly breaded chicken fillet. That’s topped with a sultry bundle of crispy applewood smoked bacon. Dripping down all of that is creamy ranch and melted asiago cheese. Then there’s lettuce or something, but I take it off because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to feel a thing.

This sandwich is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I say that as someone who has three Safeway Club Cards. It combines the best of what fast food and casual dining franchises have to offer. So basically, it’s quick and there’s a lot of ranch dressing.

To give you an idea of what my four minutes as a demigod looked like, I’ve come up with a rough sketch of my Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club experience:

Fireworks are simulated

 

I swear I’m getting back on the wagon tomorrow.

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