Today's guest post comes in from V, who first posted it on her blog, *uncorked. Thanks V!
June 12, 2009
a very awkward gmail chat to start my day. this is with a guy i went out with this past october. once. and now i kind of know why.
9:03 AM
him: hi, how it going?
me: need more coffee…just got off a three hour conference call! ughhhh
how are you?
9:04 AM
him: Ouch! just waking up on the first day of summer vacation
me: oh so jealous
9:05 AM
him: i am not, i did a tad too much celebrating last night
me: well, at least you get to relax today!
him: hopefully but its loos nice out
9:06 AM
me: finally!
him: yes
9:07 AM
did you really mean you think smoking is sexy?
me: sometimes
him: really? why
9:08 AM
me: cigars can be sexy – like just chilling out having a drink outside with a cigar. i love the smell
him: wow, i thought i was the only one out there that thought this way
9:09 AM
me: nah
him: wow crazy
me: brb
9:10 AM
him: ok
9:12 AM
me: i agreed to babysit my nephew tomorrow night and my sister is giving me instructions now.
9:13 AM
him: instructions for what?
9:14 AM
me: he’s only 3 months old, i dont know how to take care of a baby
him: oh gotcha
9:15 AM
so how was the confrence call?
me: long and kind of obnoxious, but productive
9:16 AM
him: thats good
9:17 AM
so do you know others that have “fetishes” for smoking or am i the only one?
9:18 AM
me: i wouldn’t call it a fetish, but i know some people that feel the same way. not sure there’s a support group or anything, but there’s some.
9:20 AM
him: me either, just new to it. just thought i would ask you because i am sort of affraid to look it up on the internet
9:22 AM
me: internet smoking porn? is this what you have in store for summer?
9:23 AM
him: haha no. i didn’t even know there was such a thing
me: i’m surethere is
9:24 AM
him: i wouldn’t doubt it
9:25 AM
are you into that sort of thing
me: what sort of thing
him: smoking porn
9:26 AM
me: not so much
him: wait so you are a little bit
9:27 AM
me: no, i just think that some guys look hot relaxing and smoking a cigar.
him: so you get turned on and one thing could lead to another
9:28 AM
me: I guess, but I wouldn’t say I would be looking up internet smoking porn or anything like that.
9:29 AM
him: i know i wouldn’t
i am not a prev or sick like that
me: ha, good ot know
9:30 AM
him: isn’t it
me: well, i suppose its time i get some work done
9:31 AM
interesting conversation to start my day
him: hope you don’t think i am weird.
ok bye
me: no, dont think you’re weird. have a good day – enjoy the weather!
him: you too
and yes, i think you’re fucking weird, but am afraid of becoming a lampshade so I’ll tell you otherwise.
seriously, this all started purely because i mentioned that a guy, chilling out, relaxing on a summer night drinking a glass of wine, or having a beer and smoking a good cigar was hot. i love the smell of cigars (good ones). and this is what i get in return.
An update came later:
June 22, 2009
him: hi, how are you?
me: i’m ok, a bit tired from a good weekend, but just trying to stay in with the a/c cranked.
him: yeah, it’s pretty gross out today.
me: agreed.
him: does it make you want to smoke?
me: i have to go.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Numbers
*** many thanks to c.vance for sending us this post ****
this is a story of love in numbers.
541 815.3504--- that's my number. used for a great many things.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm the only one always awake at 03.00; ready with colorful slurs or flattering lies.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm always awake between 02.00 and 04.00-- when the bars are closed and the only friends i have are cuddled next to people they love --and the flashing ring of my name lets them know no one has died, no one is in trouble... it's a displayed WARNING! HAZARDOUS IF OPENED on the screen of their flip phone. reminders of mistakes made and a lesson learned: never give your number to a drunk.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for $500 bail and a ride out of the cop shop.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for help moving because they fear the man they're moving away from--- standing by the door at 6'3" 200 lbs. to watch over her moving everything, staring down the X and not helping because of a hangover, a bad back and temper waiting for ignition.
most often it is used by creditors asking for $1.000's i don't have.
but, 3 weeks ago, it was used in a new way. it adorned the bottom of a flyer tacked to the middle of a bulletin board at PleasureWorld; a porn shop on 3rd street.
the 1st call was a weekend night-- 02.14 --from a man who had a restricted number and a gruff voice; one of those voices that calls Craigslist adverts looking to buy $5 refrigerators to compliment the other 4 in his yard. either a redneck or a classically trained actor schooled enough to fool these ears bred from South Carolina stock and born in Prineville. called to say:
-Yeah, I'm calling about the add you posted 2 days ago.
-I didn't post an add 2 days ago. You have the wrong number.
not given any thought until the 2nd call, 3 days later, at 16.14. a young man lisped sexual propositions into my phone. graphic; but with a trembling voice that sometimes squeaked. responded:
-I'm flattered, sweetheart, but I think you dialed the wrong number.
-Oh. Oh my Guh-a-od. Stho you din't postht that 1 add?
-What 1 add?
-Oh... I'm stho embarathed. Y'know, that 1 add? At PleaschthureWorld?
-Nope. I don't know. What did that 1 add say?
-Oh. Jezthus. I'm sthO sthorry. It... uhm. It sthaid, "20-sthomething man stheeking company. I'm diztheasthe free but you don't have to be." I'm sthorry, I thought---
-That's funny. And explains the call I got 2 nights ago.
-Oh. Did you... do you know hith number?
that's where i hung up. dialed 411 where a Southern operator told me i had the wrong city and state for DisneyWorld and there were no listed amusement parks in the area. only after spelling it out and yelling:
-It's a porn shop on 3rd street.
did she transfer me to a computer telling me it would dial 5.4.1. 3.1.7.9.7.2.3. for an additional $382.13 or 4 Euros. a woman stopped the ringing by answering with the business name in a voice that made me hope she had good penmanship. said:
-My phone number is 541 815.3504 and I believe someone posted an add down there as a prank. Maybe on a bulletin board?
-Let me see. 3504. 3504. 35--- oh. Yes. Here it is. So, even though this is your number, you didn't post it?
-Yep. Even though it is my number. Can you read it to me?
-Sure. It says, "NEED DICK NOW!" That part is all capitalized. Then it says, "Neat, clean-cut mid-20's male seeks 8" black cock. White cock OK if larger. I'm disease free but you don't need to be. Call: (541) 815-3504." Then it says, "P.S. I'm a bottom." So, you didn't post it? Even though it is your number?
-I did not post it. Even though it is my number.
-Oh. Okay then. I'll take it down. Oh! You know what? I bet 1 of your friends did it! Y'know? To be funny?
-I only have 2 friends and they're... hm. Of a different humor, let's say.
-Oh. Then who would have had your number, then?
this was a story of love in numbers. 541 815.3504 is mine. if you were kind enough to post an advert trying to find me sweet man loving, let me have your number to properly thank you
this is a story of love in numbers.
541 815.3504--- that's my number. used for a great many things.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm the only one always awake at 03.00; ready with colorful slurs or flattering lies.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm always awake between 02.00 and 04.00-- when the bars are closed and the only friends i have are cuddled next to people they love --and the flashing ring of my name lets them know no one has died, no one is in trouble... it's a displayed WARNING! HAZARDOUS IF OPENED on the screen of their flip phone. reminders of mistakes made and a lesson learned: never give your number to a drunk.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for $500 bail and a ride out of the cop shop.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for help moving because they fear the man they're moving away from--- standing by the door at 6'3" 200 lbs. to watch over her moving everything, staring down the X and not helping because of a hangover, a bad back and temper waiting for ignition.
most often it is used by creditors asking for $1.000's i don't have.
but, 3 weeks ago, it was used in a new way. it adorned the bottom of a flyer tacked to the middle of a bulletin board at PleasureWorld; a porn shop on 3rd street.
the 1st call was a weekend night-- 02.14 --from a man who had a restricted number and a gruff voice; one of those voices that calls Craigslist adverts looking to buy $5 refrigerators to compliment the other 4 in his yard. either a redneck or a classically trained actor schooled enough to fool these ears bred from South Carolina stock and born in Prineville. called to say:
-Yeah, I'm calling about the add you posted 2 days ago.
-I didn't post an add 2 days ago. You have the wrong number.
not given any thought until the 2nd call, 3 days later, at 16.14. a young man lisped sexual propositions into my phone. graphic; but with a trembling voice that sometimes squeaked. responded:
-I'm flattered, sweetheart, but I think you dialed the wrong number.
-Oh. Oh my Guh-a-od. Stho you din't postht that 1 add?
-What 1 add?
-Oh... I'm stho embarathed. Y'know, that 1 add? At PleaschthureWorld?
-Nope. I don't know. What did that 1 add say?
-Oh. Jezthus. I'm sthO sthorry. It... uhm. It sthaid, "20-sthomething man stheeking company. I'm diztheasthe free but you don't have to be." I'm sthorry, I thought---
-That's funny. And explains the call I got 2 nights ago.
-Oh. Did you... do you know hith number?
that's where i hung up. dialed 411 where a Southern operator told me i had the wrong city and state for DisneyWorld and there were no listed amusement parks in the area. only after spelling it out and yelling:
-It's a porn shop on 3rd street.
did she transfer me to a computer telling me it would dial 5.4.1. 3.1.7.9.7.2.3. for an additional $382.13 or 4 Euros. a woman stopped the ringing by answering with the business name in a voice that made me hope she had good penmanship. said:
-My phone number is 541 815.3504 and I believe someone posted an add down there as a prank. Maybe on a bulletin board?
-Let me see. 3504. 3504. 35--- oh. Yes. Here it is. So, even though this is your number, you didn't post it?
-Yep. Even though it is my number. Can you read it to me?
-Sure. It says, "NEED DICK NOW!" That part is all capitalized. Then it says, "Neat, clean-cut mid-20's male seeks 8" black cock. White cock OK if larger. I'm disease free but you don't need to be. Call: (541) 815-3504." Then it says, "P.S. I'm a bottom." So, you didn't post it? Even though it is your number?
-I did not post it. Even though it is my number.
-Oh. Okay then. I'll take it down. Oh! You know what? I bet 1 of your friends did it! Y'know? To be funny?
-I only have 2 friends and they're... hm. Of a different humor, let's say.
-Oh. Then who would have had your number, then?
this was a story of love in numbers. 541 815.3504 is mine. if you were kind enough to post an advert trying to find me sweet man loving, let me have your number to properly thank you
Sunday, June 21, 2009
One night stand gone wrong
Most women have the occasional low self-esteem low points. Some women live in that space chronically; we call that having “daddy issues.” One of my worst low points wasn’t daddy related, it was wicked painful breakup related.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Vicarious sex
Not getting any, but have an active fantasy life? Or do you like the idea of porn, but think all that ACTUAL humping is a little freaky? Check out this hipster fad, AIR SEX competitions. It's exactly what it sounds like.
This video is not work safe:
I know a lot of our readers are Oregonians, so how lucky are we that Portland is hosting its very own Air Sex competition this Saturday night at Berbatis. Please go, take video, and send it our way. Because that shizz is hilarious.
This video is not work safe:
I know a lot of our readers are Oregonians, so how lucky are we that Portland is hosting its very own Air Sex competition this Saturday night at Berbatis. Please go, take video, and send it our way. Because that shizz is hilarious.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Regarding Fatties
Dear Serial Monogamist,
So, I've entered the wonderful world of internet dating (and yes, I know, I should submit something of my own to DIW and I will do so after having a few liaisons under my belt). Anyway, so far so blech. Not a lot out there on the interwebs, at least not on the sites I've visited.
Anyway, I've gotten a few conversations going and then asked for a pic. Upon receipt of said pic, I've immediately been, like, "nope." I want to be really clear, and I'm not into lying, so in my next email I say "I just don't see it. Good luck to you." Since you're a member of the fairer sex, what do you think about how I'm responding? Yes, its entirely based on their uglyness, or extreme fat-itude, but oh well. I'm not just looking to date a nice person, I also want someone at least somewhat hot and I'm not going to pursue anything with people that aren't at least a 7 out of 10 on my personal scale.
Thanks,
Mr. Rodgers
Dear Mr. Rodgers,
OK, let’s start out with some linguistics.
I think you would be well-advised to be careful about using terms like “the fairer sex.” You know, like, um, EVER.
See, Fred, I know you’re not trying to get into my panties, at least not at the moment, but nonetheless, “The fairer sex?” I mean, when you use language like that, you’re likely to come off sounding like either:
A) That jerkoff with a goatee who tries to sound all ironic all of the time but who really just ends up giving away in a sarcastic, “who really believes this garbage?” tone what it is that he really thinks of women, namely, that we’re hyper-sensitive, weak-willed, and prone to hysteria (which, if you’re dipping your hairy little toes in internet dating, you’re only MORE apt to believe)
B) Some sort of renaissance fair guy who is, at this very moment, wearing crushed velvet pantaloons and drinking something you call “grog” that is really only apple cider mixed with Monarch rum, a guy who thinks it’s sexy to talk down to women so that it'll be this big fucking surprise later when you admit you just want to get tied up in a dungeon somewhere, but: Hey! It's no shocker! Your cat is named Azrael! We saw this one coming, dude.
or C) Some guy who just trying his honest-to-joe-sixpack-best to make a throwaway joke.
Even if the answer’s C, why’s it worth the risk of being seen as A or B? It’s not. I guess the moral of this particular rant is this, Freddie: Don’t talk down to me as an opener. Which, I guess, brings us on to the current topic.
Don’t string the fatties and the uggies along. There are dudes out there who can, and will, love some bigole chubba rolls and even a brilliant goddess with a cleft palate.
But: It ain’t you, babe. If you really feel bad about telling them off just after you get the photo, then try to get one more email with content out of them, and then suggest it’s something in that email that turned you off their fatty-ugg-ass-scent.
She’ll know anyway. But why put you both through the awkwardness of the in-person meetup before turning them down for being such hags? It’s painful, it’s pointless. Let their humiliation be electronic.
You also never said whether or not you were attractive. Maybe all you have to do is send a pic of yourself back to the ug-trons. Maybe then you’ll be the one getting the “yeah, I don’t see it, good luck,” e-mails.
Stranger things have happened in this neighborhood.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Just want to tell her to shut the crap up? E-mail her at seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Or not. Who needs you?
So, I've entered the wonderful world of internet dating (and yes, I know, I should submit something of my own to DIW and I will do so after having a few liaisons under my belt). Anyway, so far so blech. Not a lot out there on the interwebs, at least not on the sites I've visited.
Anyway, I've gotten a few conversations going and then asked for a pic. Upon receipt of said pic, I've immediately been, like, "nope." I want to be really clear, and I'm not into lying, so in my next email I say "I just don't see it. Good luck to you." Since you're a member of the fairer sex, what do you think about how I'm responding? Yes, its entirely based on their uglyness, or extreme fat-itude, but oh well. I'm not just looking to date a nice person, I also want someone at least somewhat hot and I'm not going to pursue anything with people that aren't at least a 7 out of 10 on my personal scale.
Thanks,
Mr. Rodgers
Dear Mr. Rodgers,
OK, let’s start out with some linguistics.
I think you would be well-advised to be careful about using terms like “the fairer sex.” You know, like, um, EVER.
See, Fred, I know you’re not trying to get into my panties, at least not at the moment, but nonetheless, “The fairer sex?” I mean, when you use language like that, you’re likely to come off sounding like either:
A) That jerkoff with a goatee who tries to sound all ironic all of the time but who really just ends up giving away in a sarcastic, “who really believes this garbage?” tone what it is that he really thinks of women, namely, that we’re hyper-sensitive, weak-willed, and prone to hysteria (which, if you’re dipping your hairy little toes in internet dating, you’re only MORE apt to believe)
B) Some sort of renaissance fair guy who is, at this very moment, wearing crushed velvet pantaloons and drinking something you call “grog” that is really only apple cider mixed with Monarch rum, a guy who thinks it’s sexy to talk down to women so that it'll be this big fucking surprise later when you admit you just want to get tied up in a dungeon somewhere, but: Hey! It's no shocker! Your cat is named Azrael! We saw this one coming, dude.
or C) Some guy who just trying his honest-to-joe-sixpack-best to make a throwaway joke.
Even if the answer’s C, why’s it worth the risk of being seen as A or B? It’s not. I guess the moral of this particular rant is this, Freddie: Don’t talk down to me as an opener. Which, I guess, brings us on to the current topic.
Don’t string the fatties and the uggies along. There are dudes out there who can, and will, love some bigole chubba rolls and even a brilliant goddess with a cleft palate.
But: It ain’t you, babe. If you really feel bad about telling them off just after you get the photo, then try to get one more email with content out of them, and then suggest it’s something in that email that turned you off their fatty-ugg-ass-scent.
She’ll know anyway. But why put you both through the awkwardness of the in-person meetup before turning them down for being such hags? It’s painful, it’s pointless. Let their humiliation be electronic.
You also never said whether or not you were attractive. Maybe all you have to do is send a pic of yourself back to the ug-trons. Maybe then you’ll be the one getting the “yeah, I don’t see it, good luck,” e-mails.
Stranger things have happened in this neighborhood.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Just want to tell her to shut the crap up? E-mail her at seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Or not. Who needs you?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The new cyber-bullying
I'm having mixed feelings about Craigslist lately. I mean, is anyone on Craigslist NOT a murderer anymore? Do not click these links if you're emotionally sensitive (or pregnant), but: Exhibit A. Exhibit B.
But then something comes along that reminds me that Craigslist has a higher calling. Like writing up fake craigslist ads making fun of people you don't like.
Like this. A quote:
"I'm looking for someone to be seen with. Basically.... I look amazing. You look amazing.
We look amazing together. In public. We don't have to actually do anything behind closed doors and I would prefer if we didn't.
If cleanliness is next to godliness, celibacy is next to celebrity.
1. If you use incorrect grammar, just keep your mouth closed. I don't want people to think you're just beauty. (We have to appear to be the total package)
2. You must have had an addiction to one drug at one point in time. Bonus points for H.
3. You must have fucked at least two dozen guys that are 'in a band'. Singers count as two people and if we've already fucked, I counted for twelve."
It goes on from there. It's signed "xoxo Cadaver."
So who do we think wrote this? Cadaver's ex-girlfriend? An anti-scenester? Or just some hater?
But then something comes along that reminds me that Craigslist has a higher calling. Like writing up fake craigslist ads making fun of people you don't like.
Like this. A quote:
"I'm looking for someone to be seen with. Basically.... I look amazing. You look amazing.
We look amazing together. In public. We don't have to actually do anything behind closed doors and I would prefer if we didn't.
If cleanliness is next to godliness, celibacy is next to celebrity.
1. If you use incorrect grammar, just keep your mouth closed. I don't want people to think you're just beauty. (We have to appear to be the total package)
2. You must have had an addiction to one drug at one point in time. Bonus points for H.
3. You must have fucked at least two dozen guys that are 'in a band'. Singers count as two people and if we've already fucked, I counted for twelve."
It goes on from there. It's signed "xoxo Cadaver."
So who do we think wrote this? Cadaver's ex-girlfriend? An anti-scenester? Or just some hater?
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Taking Out The Trash
**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who knows how to get 'er done. Er something.**
Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.
Yeah.
Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.
So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.
At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.
We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.
Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"
Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."
Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)
Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."
Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."
Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."
Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.
But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.
Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.
Yeah.
Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.
So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.
At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.
We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.
Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"
Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."
Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)
Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."
Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."
Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."
Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.
But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Pillow Talk
It can be touchy to discuss the romantic entanglements of mutual friends. I tried to shut it down with a, "Well, I'm sure it's much more complicated than that." To which the new one replied, "It always is with girls."
"Oh really? We're always the ones complicating things?" I asked. I think there was enough warning in my voice to signal that he was wading into danger territory.
"Well, you're not so bad."
"I'm not?"
"No, you're pretty simple for a girl. That's why I'm so lucky."
"I'm simple?"
"Yeah, you're always all, 'What the fuck are you talking about?'"
The thing is, I wasn't sure if being glad to hear such a thing made me a bad feminist or something.
But more honestly, I'm just relieved that I still have him fooled.
"Oh really? We're always the ones complicating things?" I asked. I think there was enough warning in my voice to signal that he was wading into danger territory.
"Well, you're not so bad."
"I'm not?"
"No, you're pretty simple for a girl. That's why I'm so lucky."
"I'm simple?"
"Yeah, you're always all, 'What the fuck are you talking about?'"
The thing is, I wasn't sure if being glad to hear such a thing made me a bad feminist or something.
But more honestly, I'm just relieved that I still have him fooled.
Monday, June 1, 2009
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