Oh. My. God. My newest time waster:
www.TextsFromLastNight.com
Sweet jesus. Here's some examples:
(734): Pregnant stripper...not hot.
(843): I guess there's a 50 percent chance that it was her that wet my bed.
(859): im in a kiddie pool, high, with a keg in arms reach. If i had a sandwich and a blowjob this would be the best day ever
(516): Dude, just walked by a homeless guy pissing on the sidewalk while he was screaming at his wang. God, I love this city.
(714): I wish there was an iPhone app to help you with your shitty personality.
I can't stop reading.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spring Break in Mexico
**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from a buddy of ours named Kenny.**
Several years ago while living in Arizona, my girlfriend, Betsy, and I decided to spend our spring break visiting Rocky Point in northern Mexico. Scarcely a twelve pack drive away, it was a popular destination for land-bound Arizonan's who wanted some beach time. We packed up and headed south, crossing the border just before midnight and arriving at the beach in the wee hours. We slept in the sand next to my trusty Honda Accord.
The next morning we woke up and headed into town for supplies. It was already hot, so pounding a few beers on the way seemed appropriate. As did smoking a joint or two. We entered town and, with Betsy at the helm, were navigating towards the supermercado, beers already warming between our thighs.
Familiar with the town, we moved qucikly along, windows down, stereo up, sipping beers -- until we stopped unexpectedly upon the bumper of the car in front of us as it waited patiently for a red light. As we peeled ourselves from the dash (carefree springbreakers, we dismissed the idea of seat belts) the large woman driving the car that was currently wedged beneath the hood of my Honda approached us, suggesting loudly in Spanish what amounted to her personal opinion on Gringos, spring break, drinking and driving, and godless heathens.
Betsy, speaking no Spanish, remained mute and simply applied direct pressure to the cut trickling blood from her forehead. My limited command of the language was further compromised by the remainder of our weed that I was choking dryly down.
Soon the cops showed up, and with very little ado, quickly confiscated my car and ordered us to report to the police station at nine the next morning. Considering ourselves lucky for leaving the scene without someone so much as smelling our beery breath, we split. And proceeded to party the rest of the day, and night away.
The next day we hitch a ride with friends into town and, nursing hangovers, we arrive at city hall promptly at nine. Betsy, tough girl that she is, walks towards the front door while telling me nonchalantly over her shoulder that she's "got this under control, feel free to wait outside". Which I do. For like an hour and half.
Finally, I go looking and enter a seemingly deserted police station, long halls extending in three directions. Somewhere a radio played tinny ranchero music.
"Hola? Buenas Dias?" Nothing. "HOLA?" Still nothing.
I wait.
Eventually I make my way deeper into the building following a long hall with flickery florescent lights. I hear a metallic clicking and look down another hall to see a heavy door swinging shut. Just before it closes I spot Betsy, sweaty hair in her face, hands held before her gripping the bars of a jail cell, looking wide-eyed right at me.
And then SLAM, the door shuts.
Several years ago while living in Arizona, my girlfriend, Betsy, and I decided to spend our spring break visiting Rocky Point in northern Mexico. Scarcely a twelve pack drive away, it was a popular destination for land-bound Arizonan's who wanted some beach time. We packed up and headed south, crossing the border just before midnight and arriving at the beach in the wee hours. We slept in the sand next to my trusty Honda Accord.
The next morning we woke up and headed into town for supplies. It was already hot, so pounding a few beers on the way seemed appropriate. As did smoking a joint or two. We entered town and, with Betsy at the helm, were navigating towards the supermercado, beers already warming between our thighs.
Familiar with the town, we moved qucikly along, windows down, stereo up, sipping beers -- until we stopped unexpectedly upon the bumper of the car in front of us as it waited patiently for a red light. As we peeled ourselves from the dash (carefree springbreakers, we dismissed the idea of seat belts) the large woman driving the car that was currently wedged beneath the hood of my Honda approached us, suggesting loudly in Spanish what amounted to her personal opinion on Gringos, spring break, drinking and driving, and godless heathens.
Betsy, speaking no Spanish, remained mute and simply applied direct pressure to the cut trickling blood from her forehead. My limited command of the language was further compromised by the remainder of our weed that I was choking dryly down.
Soon the cops showed up, and with very little ado, quickly confiscated my car and ordered us to report to the police station at nine the next morning. Considering ourselves lucky for leaving the scene without someone so much as smelling our beery breath, we split. And proceeded to party the rest of the day, and night away.
The next day we hitch a ride with friends into town and, nursing hangovers, we arrive at city hall promptly at nine. Betsy, tough girl that she is, walks towards the front door while telling me nonchalantly over her shoulder that she's "got this under control, feel free to wait outside". Which I do. For like an hour and half.
Finally, I go looking and enter a seemingly deserted police station, long halls extending in three directions. Somewhere a radio played tinny ranchero music.
"Hola? Buenas Dias?" Nothing. "HOLA?" Still nothing.
I wait.
Eventually I make my way deeper into the building following a long hall with flickery florescent lights. I hear a metallic clicking and look down another hall to see a heavy door swinging shut. Just before it closes I spot Betsy, sweaty hair in her face, hands held before her gripping the bars of a jail cell, looking wide-eyed right at me.
And then SLAM, the door shuts.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Dear Serial Monogamist
Hello interwebs.
Not too long ago, a commenter accused me, THE Serial Monogamist, of trying to take over DIW with my giant ego. Really, I’m just so happy someone was paying attention to me. Thanks for caring. But I thought and thought about it; thought about me, re-read all of my old posts again and again, and realized that yes, Lucky, you’re right. It is all about me. Me and my ego.
Funny thing, in addition to being egomaniacal, (and incredibly modest) I’m also a knowitall. And what do egomaniacal knowitalls just love to do? Give advice. This came in from a friend of a friend, and I couldn’t help myself.
Dear Serial Monogamist,
After how many days of unreturned phone calls should I write a guy off as a jerk?
Sincerely,
Miss Lonely Heart
Dear Lonely,
How many DAYS of unreturned phone calls? What the crap are you doing, lonely? Calling him day after day, leaving pathetic messages on his voice mail, and not hearing back? Or is this just one call, and then sitting around on your ass wondering when Mr. Wonderful is going to get around to thinking of you? Yikes.
Here’s the thing: If he doesn’t call you back, you can’t really write him off. He’s written you off. Forget about it. What you need to do is pull up your big girl britches, give him the finger, and move on.
But don’t be afraid to ask yourself why he didn’t call. Are you boring? Do you sit around waiting for awesome things to happen to you? Because that’s not really the way it works. I could be wrong (I think I was, like, once), but something about your question just reads “needy and boring.” Try being less of both. Go out and get an independent life. Take a drawing class. Learn a new hobby. Stop watching so much reality TV. Then maybe you won’t have to count days between phone calls.
Love,
Serial
Got a dating question? Email me at seriallymonogamous@gmail.com
Not too long ago, a commenter accused me, THE Serial Monogamist, of trying to take over DIW with my giant ego. Really, I’m just so happy someone was paying attention to me. Thanks for caring. But I thought and thought about it; thought about me, re-read all of my old posts again and again, and realized that yes, Lucky, you’re right. It is all about me. Me and my ego.
Funny thing, in addition to being egomaniacal, (and incredibly modest) I’m also a knowitall. And what do egomaniacal knowitalls just love to do? Give advice. This came in from a friend of a friend, and I couldn’t help myself.
Dear Serial Monogamist,
After how many days of unreturned phone calls should I write a guy off as a jerk?
Sincerely,
Miss Lonely Heart
Dear Lonely,
How many DAYS of unreturned phone calls? What the crap are you doing, lonely? Calling him day after day, leaving pathetic messages on his voice mail, and not hearing back? Or is this just one call, and then sitting around on your ass wondering when Mr. Wonderful is going to get around to thinking of you? Yikes.
Here’s the thing: If he doesn’t call you back, you can’t really write him off. He’s written you off. Forget about it. What you need to do is pull up your big girl britches, give him the finger, and move on.
But don’t be afraid to ask yourself why he didn’t call. Are you boring? Do you sit around waiting for awesome things to happen to you? Because that’s not really the way it works. I could be wrong (I think I was, like, once), but something about your question just reads “needy and boring.” Try being less of both. Go out and get an independent life. Take a drawing class. Learn a new hobby. Stop watching so much reality TV. Then maybe you won’t have to count days between phone calls.
Love,
Serial
Got a dating question? Email me at seriallymonogamous@gmail.com
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