Keep It Trashy Bend, Oregon

**Editors' Note: I am not making this shit up, this was submited by "The Professor Herself" and has been verified by a third party. Happy dating.**


I’ve developed some very bad habits in the course of my dating career: I lie, I cheat, and I don’t have that many boundaries. Last night, I proved to the world how much of a trashy skank I can be.

As of recent I had been dating … oh, wait, excuse me…I had been in a “platonic monogamous relationship” with a fly fisherman who hails from Montana. I had met him just after getting into a fight involving a pool stick with a fellow at the Westside Tavern. I was leaning against the juke box, cigarette dangling from my mouth and a sour attitude hanging on my face when a lanky fellow wearing a suit blazer, wingtips, and a “Destiny Captain” trucker hat approached me. I wasn’t in a real laughing mood, but I suppose when someone that looks this interesting asks “Hey, babe, you want to hear a joke?” I can’t deny the offer.

The relationship seemed to start out as normal, but soon left the grasps of normalcy after the explanation that he wanted to be with me exclusively, but didn’t want to have a “stage five clinger” (I suppose that means girlfriend?). In his world he not only has his cake, and eats it, but makes someone else bake and decorate the fucker.

The relationship wasn’t always bad; he and my friends got along well, I love some of his friends, we never ran out of things to talk about, we went fly fishing, I never had to pay for anything, and he was highly amusing. This relationship was good on paper. Plus, he would be gone for weeks at a time to fight fires, and I could do whatever I wanted. Though I guess this is where the problems in the relationship started to develop.

So I developed a bad habit of making out with all seven, okay maybe more like four, of my other “boyfriends” while he was out of town. Especially while I was drunk. Which I am a lot. I guess really I was sick and tired of sleeping with the guy, and then having to go to Rigoberto’s with him so he could buy three rolled tacos, and get messy ass shit all over his room, his face, and then pass out. Or maybe it was whenever we went to Portland he would stop at Popeye’s chicken and buy some Rainier for the drive home…steering with only his leg. Not only that, but he has started getting lazy (but hey, at least the sex was good and free?). There weren’t many fires to fight this season, so he had resorted to trapping himself in his room during the day so he could smoke weed and watch my collection of Curb your Enthusiasm DVD’s. At night, he would stagger down to the Westside to get drunk, and I would foolishly follow.

Last night, there happened to be the moustache contest at the Westside, so my best friend and I brought over a pair of clippers to the fisherman’s place. They cut while I decided to draw on a ‘stache. We finished our artistry and headed out. Immediately upon arrival I receive free drinks and compliments on my moustache. Apparently any girl in a dress with a moustache has “balls” or so I was told, one fellow even decided to check to see if I had balls (p.s. thanks asshole).

I had been drinking since the afternoon, so it was no surprise that a few drinks, a contest which I lost, and some poor decisions later I was kicked out. A few friends followed me, but the guy I claimed to be with (and the winner of the contest) wouldn’t leave. We arrived at a new house and took drunken pictures, I proceed to eat peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches, and make a mess. And more of a fool of myself. About thirty minutes into partying I decided that it’s not cool that the guy hasn’t showed up yet to party with us.

I walk down the street to call him. As it turns out, I called him 16 times in ten minutes. Next, I break my cell phone in half, and throw it against a tree, pick it back up, stomp it, and then kick it across the street. I storm back to the house, and proceed to lie down on an outside bench, feeling sorry for myself. Ten seconds later, dude shows up. For some reason he wants a ride to his house (later I come to find it’s so he can smoke more bowls), and after we get there, he and a few others go inside, so I feel it’s an opportune time to make out with the kid that’s sitting in the back of the car. The kid in the back also comes up with the great idea that we’re all going to go to The Summit.

My memory fades a bit here, but I know we walked into The Summit. I proceed to kiss another guy that had spent the night at my house about a week before hand. When that one took off, too, I went upstairs to find the fisherman. At this point is when I realized I needed to go home. I spotted him, and he was holding two vodka tonics in his hand. He took one look at me and turned away. I stopped him, and say “Hey, I need your keys, I need to get my shit out of your room,” and he responds:

“Fuck you, why the fuck would I give you my keys?”

“Because my shit is in your room, douche bag, answer the questions and stay fashionable … get dressed up.”

He turned slowly, and looked at an innocent drunk guy standing at the bar, and asks “Would you fucking give a girl your keys when you weren’t together? Fucking, yes, but the bitch is making out with other guys in front of your face, and she left all her fucking shit at your house?”

The guy he asked looked so freaked out by the situation that he says, “Yes?” and runs away.

So, granted, I probably deserved some harsh reality at the moment, drunk or not, but I did not appreciate it at the time, so, I slapped him in the face and punched him in the chest. This is when I realized that I really had to leave, or I was going to be kicked out of two bars in one night.

It took me a good drunken stagger and 45 minutes to get back to his apartment where I proceeded to arrange the patio chairs into some type of bed. I ended up getting uncomfortable and decided to sleep on the cement. Bare legs and cold weather don’t mix that well, so I check to see if a window is open that I could crawl through, because at least if I’m inside, I’ll be warm, and there I can get my bike and backpack. The patio window was closed, but luckily, the front window was open. I popped of the screen, slid the window over and climbed in. My intentions were just to grab my bike, but I soon realized that if I was drunk enough to break into this guy’s house, I was probably too drunk to attempt to ride my bike home. I go upstairs, and get into his bed, and fall asleep.

About two hours later this dude comes home, and it’s not only him, he’s with another dude. Dude turns on the light, and says “HOLY FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE, YOU CRAZY FUCKING BITCH” and at this point I’m sober enough, so I say, “It’s okay, I’ll leave.God,” to which he responds:
“No, you’re not fucking leaving…How the fuck did you get in here, what the fuck? Seriously, you’re fucking crazy, you stupid bitch.”

The other dude cuts in and says, “Holy shit, there’s a chick with a moustache in your bed, you said there would be a chick in your bed, but you said nothing about a chick with a moustache.”

So I turn to that dude, and yell, “Seriously dude, shut the fuck up, who the fuck are you?...Fucking shit, I’m fucking leaving.”

It goes on like this for a good five more minutes before the random was kicked out. I tried to leave again, and still am told that I have to “fucking stay” because “we need to talk about this in the morning.”

Oh, but this was the best “We’ll talk about it in the morning, but tonight, I’m going to hate fuck you in the ass.”

Um, excuse me, but “I’m going to hate fuck you in the ass” aren’t any words that a woman wants to hear, and normally, any normal girl would say “fuck you” and leave, but apparently … I was still drunk, and far from normal.

I stayed; I wanted to see how this hate fuck business would play out. I was already in a plethora of trouble, why not just do as peaches would do and “Fuck the Pain Away.”

The sex was okay, but Whisky Dick McGee over there couldn’t perform, and gave up after I told him there was no way that he was going to “hate fuck” me “in the ass.” So, we’re laying there naked, I decide I’m thirsty and get up to go downstairs. I hear, from the bed as I’m walking “Hey, in the freezer there are some ice cream sandwiches, and some drumsticks, could you grab me one? You can have anything you want in there, you’re in trouble, but I’m not going to stop you from eating ice cream.” I nod my head, continue down the stairs and open the freezer to grab him a drumstick, get my water, and proceed upstairs. He’s pretty much passed out, so I throw the ice cream at him to wake him up, and he just looks at me, and opens the drumstick and says “What, are you too good for my ice cream?”

I don’t even know what that means. I just responded, “Remember, I’m vegan.”

“Oh, you’re such a retard,” he says.

I look him in the face, and bite my lip out of anger, and say:

“Yeah, well at least I didn’t shit my pants three days ago because of drinking too much and eating taquitos every night” (Which, is another amazing story, for another amazing time … Let me just say that there’s a difference between sharting and shitting, and he definitely shit his pants.)

I suppose it was probably good that these were the last words we ever said to each other, in the morning, I got up; got dressed; spit on him; walked out; and rode my bike home. I realize that the guys a jackass, but I know I match him on his “douchebaggitry.” I think there was an unspoken agreement that we weren’t going to sleep with each other after this, and avoid each other for a little while …Until I wake up this morning to a new text message that says “I need coke” about which, after finally getting over my pre-existing drug problem before his and my relationship, I wasn’t too pleased.

I also received a phone call from his best friend this morning informing me that he’s creating a very uncomfortable situation for quite a few people in his personal life. The last thing I asked for from him via text message were my Curb Your Enthusiasm DVD’s back; I still haven’t received a response. I guess my first clue that dating this guy was going to be a little weird was when he told me my wildest fantasies were going to come true because of him. Let me tell you, the only place this month and a half would be a fantasy would be in hell.