Quote of the day

Up for discussion. About hot chicks:

"People call us sluts because, being ugly, they have no idea how difficult it is to resist fucking good-looking people."

Credit Xiaxue.

The Call That Never Comes

We've all been there. Somebody says they'll call you. They may give a specific time, or just a range of time in which to expect this call.
This call could be from anybody. It could be a boy or girl you like, it could be your heterosexual life partner, it could be person you're waiting to interview. All of these are hard to wait for, but those ones when it's a person you'd like to date, or fuck, or whatever, seem to be the hardest.
So you wait. You may keep your phone glued to your hand, afraid that leaving it for one minute could result in "1 missed call" written across your cell screen.
It's nice if you're busy and you don't have to think about the call that is not coming.
It's harder when you're not as busy and you sit there and wait. The seconds tick by. They turn in to minutes, then hours.
Sometimes the call comes. You think to yourself, "Why was I even wasting time wondering if my phone would ever ring?"
Sometimes the phone never rings. A million things might run through your head.
"Why didn't they call?"
"Is something wrong and they couldn't call me? Should I be worried?"
"Did they do this on purpose?"
"Do they know that I am waiting?!?!?!"
It never matters. We'll never know the real reasons that people choose not to call back.
It's probably not because you asked them on a date to drink water.
It's more likely that this is just a part of life. People forget to return calls.
Maybe they just forgot.
Maybe they didn't feel like talking on the phone last night.
We've all been there.

How To Get A Guy To For Sure Not Call You Back

Leave this message:

"Hi. Um, I don't normally do this, but I just really enjoyed our conversation and meeting you the other day, so I was wondering if maybe you'd ever want to go out for a drink. Or if you don't drink, for coffee or if you don't like coffee, maybe tea or water. I like water. So um, yeah, call me back, er whatever. Or not. Uh, whatever's cool. K, have a good day. Talk to you soon, maybe."


Yeah. I like water. I said it. Fucking whatever. He's the weirdo for not liking water.

I Can't Believe She Farted.

We had the drinks and the heart to heart. We laughed. Our thighs touched under the table. Our gaze went uninterrupted. I made an awkward comment about cunnilingus and it got weird for a second, but I recovered. We even had the STD inquiry. I'm horny (what's new) and I have a boner (again, nothing new.) It's 1:30 am.

We head to her friend's boyfriend's apartment.

I turn on XBox 360 and throw in "Blow." George Jung is a badass. An imprisoned badass but a badass nonetheless. I stumble back to the couch. I'm buzzed. 5 out of 10. I think about what's to come. I open another beer and picture my accomplice as a stewardess. George must have gotten hella pussy. It's 2:35 am.

We touch. I feel guilty about being on her friend's boyfriend's couch buttass naked and then I touch her boob. My worries disappear. I'm still concerned about my man-sweat (and worse) getting on her friend's boyfriend's couch, but whatever. I mean, boobs, right? It's 4:35 am.

Catch the math? We've been fooling around for 3 solid hours. I already selected "Play Movie" again. I am now hearing Johnny Depp's character deteriorate rapidly for a second time in the last 180 minutes. His life is not nearly as badass the second time around. It sounds like it sucked actually. It sounds like my night feels.

While I enjoy fooling around as much as the next guy, I don't enjoy 3 hours of it at 5:35 am. My weiner is sore. I'm tired. I'm either gonna cum or just pass out. I don't get a chance to do either.

My arms are falling asleep so I reposition myself. I know what you're thinking and yes, I'm licking her labia. I am tantalizing her taint. I am rummaging her rim. She farts. Like man farts. Like "PLOOMF" in my face.

I'm not grossed out. Not yet. No, I'm straight up offended. A fucking fart? Really? In my face?

She apologizes. She looks me in the eyes, the same eyes she just farted into and says she's sorry. This did not help.

It's too late. I think my penis has actually burrowed into my own stomach out of repulsion. It's over. The night was done.

I made a snide comment about her needing to wear more deodorant. (She actually smelled great...my feelings were hurt) I get dressed, grab my shoes and leave.

The next day her Facebook status read "Sometimes it happens." I messaged her "sometimes I masturbate while listening to Prince and I kept that from happening last night...what's your excuse?" She didn't reply.

I have a feeling things are over between us.

Poster boy and The Box

Poster boy was just returning from one of his extended adventures. He’d been on the road for nearly eight weeks while I stayed at home, playing house with a girlfriend.

She and I would make dinner together, have a couple of cocktails and then go to bed and turn on a chick flick. She’d fall asleep with her glasses on, and I’d take them off of her and set them on the nightstand.

At first I had a hard time sleeping next to her because she doesn’t snore. She’s completely silent when asleep. I would wake up to roll over in bed and not hear a steady “snnnnggg … snuuuuggh … shnrt … snnnggg” or a deep mouth-breather inhale and exhale, and I’d get panicky. “Oh, shit,” I’d think.”I’ve woken her up. Or she’s dead. In my bed.” But no, she just slept like someone without a deviated septum. I could get used to that. It was all very nice, but Poster Boy had to come home at some point.

Our reunion night was all planned out. I shaved my legs for the first time in weeks. I thought about painting my toenails, but that seemed a bit much. All was prepared.

When he showed up, he had grown a chest-grazing beard. He was a little stinky and more than a little scruffy, but I was glad to have him home. Of course he brought me presents.

They were silly little cute things he’d picked up here and there. Funny tourist T-shirts. A sticker from Wall-Drug.

Then he pulled out The Box. You know, that one particular blue box. C’mon ladies. THE BLUE BOX.

Now, poster boy’s got a noteworthy gift-giving history. There was the time he took me to NYC for my birthday. There was the time he gave me a Choose Your Own Adventure Date. But there had never been jewelry. Never. And I’ve pointed out this hole in the gift-giving history a time or two. Or a hundred.

But this is also Poster Boy we’re talking about.

“No,” I said, “you did not.”

“Open it!” He said, grinning toothily.

“No.” I repeated. I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Open it already.”

I did. Inside, I found a silver star. A brooch.

A plastic, silver-colored, star shaped sheriff’s badge with a plastic emblem glued to it that read, “Wyoming.” The back looked like a safety pin had been repurposed with some more Elmer’s. 

It turns out he found The Box when he was helping someone move. He thought it would be cute to put my present in it.

I did manage, somehow, not to pierce his face with the safety pin. Or to throw the star at his head, ninja-style. But I think that’s only because it wasn’t really heavy enough to even poke his eye out.

SNAGs, SAGs & Douche Bags, Oh My!

Keyword Glossary:
S.N.A.G. - Sensitive New Age Guy
S.A.G. - Super Awkward Guy
Douche Bags - Self-Explanatory

S.N.A.G.
I really did like Mr. SNAG. He was nice, respectful, loving and thoughtful. He had his shit together, had a job, and his own place. He could just as easily appreciate the comic genius of Bill Hicks as he could the esoteric nature of Ouspensky. He was a rare duck in our small Central Oregon town.

The only problem with Mr. SNAG was the constant, daily relationship processing. The "I feel..." statements, the "What is the quality of our connection today..." conversations, and the "Where are we going..." questions.

I'm not the type of girl that wants to constantly discuss our feelings. My friends say I have the energy of a 14-yr. old boy, but just because I like to throw shit off buildings or skin my knee doesn't mean I'm not a sensitive gal. I'm just not the type of chick who is going to call you every day or want you to either.

After a point, it felt like we talked about our relationship more than we actually had a relationship. I really did like Mr. SNAG, I really did. I just wasn't the Sensitive New Age Girl for him.

S.A.G.
Oh SAG. How awkward you are. 37 years of age and you still tell me 5th grade jokes that you punctuate with a punch in my arm. On paper, you're a catch: attorney, home-owner, educated, cute. In person, you stand too close, tell random, uninteresting stories and laugh at your own stupid jokes.

Something about your awkwardness was endearing. At first. Then we began flirting and kissing and I realized how awkward you really are.

You'd call me 7-10x one day and not again for several weeks. Then you were genuinely surprised when I commented on the sporadic nature of your attention.

You'd fawn all over me when you noticed another guy talking to me, but then would ignore me when I was alone at our Ultimate Frisbee games.

You called me one night and asked me to bring over a can of beans even though you live less than a half mile from the store.

I still heart you Super Awkward Guy. In an awkward sort of way.

Douche Bag
Who hasn't dated a Douche Bag? The guy who treats you like shit and you let him. Why are douche bags so tempting?

I've dated several DBs, but the one that was the biggest douche was several years back. We were dating, or so I thought. We had a great connection, hung out every day, laughed and kissed a lot. He played the guitar like I've never seen before or since and I fell instantly. He said he had too.

It was the summer I fought wildland fires. I could get called out at any moment and need to leave in an hour. The call came and I left for two weeks. When I returned, he didn't return my calls for days. I went to our regular Frisbee pick-up game only to be approached by a cute, mutual friend.

"Uh, I wanted to let you know that ____ and I started seeing each other."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. While you were away. We went to the coast and it just sorta happened."

"Just sorta happened, huh."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I thought you should know."

"Uh-huh. Yeah. He prolly shoulda told me."

"Yeah..."

When I asked him about it, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I didn't mean for it to happen. We were at the coast."

And that is what makes him a Douche.