Tag Archives: dating

Brace Yourself Kid, This Is BIG

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Do you have your big girl pants on? If so, please check the fly because that would be grossly inappropriate for this blog. Are you ready to GET SERIOUS!? Are you ready to have your mind blown? I sure hope so, cus the last thing I need is for you to come crying to me when you’re caught off guard with my big announcement.

Crap. But what if it isn’t really that big?** And now I’ve built it up and you have all these unrealistic expectations of big-ness… Ugh, I suck under pressure.***  Well, here goes. Today, I received the worst news that someone such as myself could possibly receive. Aside from my leaky faucet, broken toilet and Corey Haim’s accidental overdose.****

**[that’s what she said]

***[guys, come on]

****[that was an exaggeration, I wasn’t even sure who he was. I’m just relieved it wasn’t that hottie from Rookie of the Year.]

I have been officially registered for a 5k.

I guess it’s only fair that I tell you the whole story before you cast harsh judgements on my friend for such an unspeakable crime. In a moment of weakness (that term is open to interpretation), I promised I would run (that term is also open to interpretation) a 5k in the event that my friend quit smoking.

There I go again, sacrificing my own happiness for the health of others. I know you’re thinking that I got myself into this mess, but really?! Who actually follows through on a deal like that?  Am I really THAT out of shape that people would do just about anything to see me jog a few laps? That’s pathetic. I am, of course, referring to ‘the people,’ not me.

What’s that? You’re not impressed with my crappy announcement?

Would it be better if you were eating cupcakes right now? Precisely.

And who’s fault is that?

But you want to know something else that’s sorta BIG?

This little drug delivery service blog is approximately one year old!!

naked-barbie1

As I might have mentioned on a couple hundred occasions, I’m not the best at remembering or commemorating anything where I have to remember a date, such as my own birthday. I know I launched this some time last March, but I couldn’t tell you the date even if it meant I’d never have to eat another brussel sprout again.

Wait. I’m 27. I guess that time has already come.

Anyway, I’m not one for celebrating my own birthday, much less my blog’s. And I’ve noticed it’s very common to give away gift cards or have some sort of contest in honor of the occasion, however, I think that’s lame. Not when I’m the one who wins it though, cus then it’s very non-lame.

blunt-deliverySince I can’t give away what you really want, which is a personal visit to your doorstep, I thought I would do some spring cleaning and have a Blunt auction sale. Just shoot me an email if you would like to bid on any of the following items. Don’t pussyfoot around, cus I have a feeling there will be some stiff competition. [I know you might think it’s a bit stingy to have an auction sale to celebrate my anniversary, but I just think it’s good business sense]

1. The entire Jennifer Lopez chick-flick collection.

2. A stack of unpaid bills, most of them still in the envelope.

3. The OFFICE fridge phrase-magnets.

4. 7,500 Chicken Soup for the Soul books. I’ve never read them, but every time they publish one of my stories they send me a truckload.

5. A pelican pillow that’s been sitting in my garage for 3 years. It’s origin is still a mystery.

Guys, really, it’s MY pleasure. You are, after all, the best readers in the UNIVERSE.

rockford-il-portrait-photographerCheck out my photography blog, I’ve got a new hottie up for you. And, if you’re not already following me on FACEBOOK, click here and get your act together!

Why I Hate Women Part 7 Of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

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“Indian people seem rather unemotional in my experience… Then again, my experience was with your ex-boyfriend who snorted $300 of heroin a day. So that could be a bit of a generalization.”

-my Dad.

I am currently watching a Millionaire Matchmaker marathon. I love this show, but not because I love it. Patty Stanger has nothing on me in the relationship knowledge department – and certainly not in the hair department. Right? I’m loving this show because I discovered I still have cable even though I cancelled it in December. Take that, universe.

It has come to my special attention that I not only suck at blogging and mysteriously have bootlegged cable, but that ALL of my readers hate women. Especially the women. I like to think that we would all be cyber friends even if we weren’t united by this sentiment of hatred, but I can’t say for sure. Here’s to hoping on rainbows and leprechauns.

MIND WARP POP QUIZ: Please raise your hand if you’ve ever found yourself trapped into one of the following questions –

1. Are there any cute girls where you work?

2. Does this make me look big?

3. Do you like my new haircut?

While you’re pondering that, I recently had drinks with a woman that I don’t hate- V from Uncorked. And maybe a pizza. And a tuna wrap something or other. Have I mentioned how smitten I am by this kitten? She’s everything she’s cracked up to be (except for that time she blew me off for her couch and a couple of Pugs) and if you don’t read her blog then don’t come crying to me when your life ends up in shambles.

i-hate-women
NEWSFLASH: when it comes to women, there’s no winning. In my experience, if I try to befriend them and put my best self-deprocating, non-threatening-hoodie-wearing foot forward, I will inevitably suffer the consequences of their certifiably nutty minds snapping at some point. Don’t be fooled- this process can sometimes take years. However, if I gravitate toward male friendships, then I’m a boyfriend-stealing hoe with daddy issues who is starved for attention. Some might think of this predicament as a lose/lose, but I just think it’s great Sunday night entertainment. What else are you gonna do, watch golf?

Strap in, because I’m about to blindside you with the point of this post. Except I don’t think I can legally call it a blindside if I warned you first. Since I’m not a heartless bastard who hates things without concrete reasons, I will now dispense reason 7 of 8,964 of why I hate women: Mind Warp Trivia. Let’s look at question #1 and it’s possible answers. You might think you know the correct one, but I can assure you that you are sorely mistaken.

1. Are there any cute girls at your work?

a.  No sweetie, not at all.

b. I haven’t really noticed to tell you the truth.

c. Eh, there’s a few that are alright. Certainly not on your level, but they are okay.

d. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.

Unfortunately none of these are correct. Regardless of what you choose, the answer won’t be satisfactory because it is a trick question. If you choose (a) she won’t believe you; if you choose (b) she will accuse you of lying; if you choose (c) she will be pissed that you are looking at other girls; and if you choose (d) she will say that’s bullshit. This is a mind warp trap with the only way out being a fight. Even simply breathing will cause a fight when presented with such a question. With that being said… Good luck!

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

More Things I Hate: Valentine’s Day, Racists And Adult Acne

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Really? Did I just have to throw around the “R” word to get your attention? That’s sad. Sad because I have been gone for so long that I feel like I have to throw a dramatic title at you in order to peak your interest, and sad because that just might be true. Well, joke is on you cus this post isn’t about racists OR ACNE.

I’m currently writing this from my local Borders. I’ve got the Chess dweebs to my left, the girls who can’t figure out why he hasn’t called yet to my right, and a riveting, religious debate going on behind me. Why. Why do I do this to myself? Well, I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to get the motivation to do anything at my house these days. There are many reasons why this could be: 1. the 4-inch memory foam, which renders it almost impossible for me to move once situated; 2. the endless supply of rice krispie treats and fruit snacks in my nightstand; 3. the permanently closed blinds that let in zero sunlight, thus removing all sense of space and time;  4. the looming presence of Valentine’s Day in the air; 5. or the depression I’ve been stuck in for the past year.  There’s no way of knowing for sure. But my point is, if you ever want another blog again in your precious little life, you’ll stop asking questions.

valentines-day-date1

Speaking of the overly-commercialized scam of a holiday, Valentine’s Day, this year my dad dropped off a bouquet of flowers along  with a bag of Xanax and a “don’t kill yourself” note from my mother. I’m hoping this information spares me from any grief I’ll be receiving from all of you on why I only wrote two blogs last month. I’ve already got to live with the fact that today I’ve already consumed: a McDonald’s #2, a cold Little Caesars pizza, a box of Junior Mints, Frosted Flakes, and a carton of 100 calorie pack fudge stripe cookies. It’s not even 3 pm yet, and I’ve still got The Bachelor to suffer through later.

Considering my dad is the one guy in my life I can always count on, I reached a logical conclusion to make him my Valentine this year. So I will now share a quick story with you that took place over this joyous holiday weekend.

[I’m at the mall with my parents]

MOM: Denny, we’re gonna look for some curtains. Why don’t you walk some laps for your cholesterol? You haven’t been working out.

DAD: Sure, that’s a good idea. I’ve been eating really bad lately.

[20 minutes later…]

ME: Hey, mom, is that dad up ahead of us?

MOM: Yea, I can see his bald spot.

ME: DAD!  Hey, dad!

MOM: He can’t hear you. He’s needs a hearing aid.
ME:  Wait, it looks like he’s eating something?

MOM: Well, what would he be eating? We’re about to go get dinner?

[I tap him on the shoulder and as he turns around, about five Fannie May wrappers fall out of his hand, which is holding a half-eaten pixie]

DAD: [looks at me, mid-chew] Crap.

So then, we walked into Panera to get some dinner:

DAD: Hey, wow. They have free Wi-Fi here. I didn’t know that.

ME: Yup, I guess they do.

DAD: That means we could have brought our laptops surfed the internet while we eat.

ME: Yes, yes it does.

DAD: Good to know for next time.

ME: But, you don’t have a laptop.

DAD: Well, it’d be pretty cool if I did. Maybe I will get one, you know, so I can use the free Wi-Fi.

Sigh. This is what I’m dealing with folks. Remember, I’m a product of these two parents – and surely, that counts for something. I hope all is well and none of you jumped off the nearest bridge last weekend. Cus really, at least wait until it’s warmer.

P.S. I updated my photography blog, Chumps. Check it out.

family-photographer-rockford-il2

Am I Too Late For A Thanksgiving Post?

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Your guess is as good as mine why two “loving parents” would allow their only daughter to eat corn on the cob directly off a dirty picnic table. Or to wear that Little House On The Prairie getup, that was clearly too small.

I was going to title this post: That Time I Tried To Run Away [OR Why I Hate Dogs]. But the truth is, there isn’t much to say about running away. I didn’t get very far. I have rather protective parents and an overly paranoid mother who is a very, very light sleeper. Plus they live on a dead end street in the middle of nowhere. Just saying, it was probably my most unsuccessful idea ever. Aside from the lemonade stand and the time I asked my dad for a horse and he scammed me into raising sheep.

Oh, and the whole dog thing is a mystery. I just hate them with a fiery passion. The smaller they are, the more unjustified hatred is directed toward them. Don’t get your panties in a bundle trying to figure it out. And please don’t use the word “panties.”

As usual, I’m fashionably late in getting to the Thanksgiving post. Despite my looming depression over the past year, I have a lot to be thankful for. You, for one. I realize I’m a horrible blog owner. I hardly post. I don’t always comment on your comments. And I’m an altogether frustrating mystery.

But you, you’re so forgiving of my wayward actions. You love me in spite of my disappearing acts. Truth be told, this blog has been a great source of inspiration for me in the past year. It’s been a place where I could honestly vent my frustrations and hopefully, you could too. The fact that any of you take the time to read my incomprehensible ramblings is more confusing than why my mom collects all those free gold-lined address labels that come in the mail, yet she refuses to use them because they are so ugly.

Although I often fill these virtual pages with rants and sarcasm, I am a very blessed individual. 2009 may have given me a round house kick to the stomach, but I have quite a few things to be thankful for:

photography

florence

best-friends

medieval-church2

parents2

babies

So there you have it.

Now stop labeling me a Crabby McUnthankfulPants. Next post we will be returning to BitterTown and your regularly scheduled whining.

 

Dear 2009, I’m Ready To Forgive You For Your Bastardly Ways

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You know how when you meet someone for the first time and there’s just that instant connection? As they explained on Sleepless in Seattle: magic. The stars align, and in that moment it’s as if the whole universe existed just to bring the two of you together?

Well, that is not what happened when I was first introduced to 2009.

The year began with me laying in the darkness of my room, unshowered [for what might have been days], surrounded by leftover holiday candy wrappers, recently unemployed, and staring at the ceiling while listening to news anchors give unbiased coverage of the upcoming election make virtual love to Obama.

I thought about making resolutions, but then remembered I had just published my first story in Chicken Soup for the Soulwhich talked about precisely how much I hated resolutions.

As the year went on, I started devising a list of things that I’d never forgive 2009 for:

  • stealing my best friend away and shipping him to San Diego
  • the extra 15 pounds I put on by working in a bank office for 2 years but always justified with the fact that I made lots of money
  • losing said bank job and no longer having an reason as to why I was toting around an extra 15 pounds
  • making Illinois not only one of the most corrupt places to live, but one of the hardest places to get a job
  • causing various family members to get really sick and/or lose their minds
  • that spot on my carpet I couldn’t get out, even with the stuff that Billy Mays told me to buy
  • Billy Mays dying
  • my air conditioning bill
  • all of those people who rejected my story submissions thus deepening my depression and making my goal of becoming a full time writer seem impossible
  • turning 27

The list goes on, but the point is: it was just one of those years. Unfortunately, I felt like I’d been in “one of those years” for nearly a decade. It didn’t help that everyone around me was talking about CHANGE, yet I knew nothing was going to be different for me. Every passing year that I was working some random job instead of doing what I was passionate about, I found it harder to put on a happy face. Then, depression’s finest looking wing man, guilt, strolled in wearing a nicely coordinated suit. I started to feel guilty for being depressed. Cus, I mean, hey, I’m still breathing right?

Wait, hold on a second.

Oh, okay. Yes. The answer is yes, I’m still breathing. And on top of being able to breathe, the second installment of the Twilight Saga was released. There were things everywhere to be thankful for. Yet, I still struggled. I didn’t even put up a CHRISTMAS TREE, which nearly resulted in excommunication from my own family. If we were Catholic, that is.

But then. Irony struck my life again, when a routine email inquiry turned into a meeting on a snowy morning during Christmas week [that I almost blew off cus I love sleep too much and my car sucks in the snow and I had procrastinated all my shopping but mainly I just like sleep too much]. That meeting turned into a job as Senior Editor for a new magazine, in which I will be able to be as creative as I want. Which by the way, never happens in real life jobs. And, she found me in a random Google search in the middle of the night.

And now if you’ll lay back on the counseling couch, I’d like to say that dreams are a tricky thing. They can be the only driving force that keeps you going at times, yet the constant pursuit of dreams -accompanied by disappointment- can also destroy you. But here’s the good part: when you finally take just one small step towards fulfilling that dream, which you eventually will, it makes all of the rejection letters, and sleepless nights, and financial stress, and waiting tables, and writing about things you hate seem just… not important.

So hey, do me a solid and hang on to those dreams in 2010.

You have nothing to lose but your sanity.

My dad stole my Polaroid camera. He took this as I was walking through his backyard. He’s always been a big fan of my dreams.

dreams

Kenny Chronicles: Don’t Cry Or My Fake Tan Will Run

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[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]

Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.

[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]

Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee.  I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.

Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.

Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?

Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.

Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?

Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.

Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.

Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.

Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]

Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.

Kenny: Um, no.

Me: What do you mean no?

Kenny: We’re not those people.

Me: Those people, who?

Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.

Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO!  ….Turn the car around.

Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?

Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]

Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?

Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.

Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!

Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that is.  Oh wait, you didn’t know that?

It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:

Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.

Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?

Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.

Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?

Kenny: No.

Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?

Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.

Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.

[silence…]

Me: Get out of my house.

rockford-il-photography

And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.

The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:

Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.

Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?

Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.

Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]

Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.

Me:  Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.

 

And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…

To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water

You’re At The Top Of Your Class! Too Bad No One Will Ever Care.

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Holy crapballs.


There’s something we’ve got to talk about before we take this relationship any further. No, I’m not going to talk aboutthe six consecutive years I avoided the dentist, or how I almost married a British heroin addict, or how I almost married a bipolar psychopath, or how I will search for as long as it absolutely takes to find a close parking spot because I’m grossly out of shape and have no desire to remedy that situation, or how I will inevitably listen to the same song for two straight weeks which then ruins it for the rest of eternity, or how I can’t seem to buy toilet paper until I literally run out while on the toilet.

We’re not talking about any of that. Sorry to tempt you.

What we ARE talking about is how the crap I ended up being 27.  And how no one even had the decency to fire a warning shot.

Oh, I forgot I wasn’t going to reveal any personal details on this website. My bust. V over at Uncorked, just wrote a post about how she’s got her 10 year reunion coming up and it got me to thinking about mine. Oh dear, what will they all say of my singleness, my random smattering of job choices, the fact that I quit college cus it was B.S., and how I don’t have ANY CHILDREN to blame my butch haircut on?!? If I had one, that is. Which I never will cus someone has to keep living the dream. And that someone is me.

Please pay close attention to the picture below. Study it with reckless abandon.

Sorry, that wasn’t really an appropriate usage of that phrase, but I have been trying to incorporate it into as much of my written and spoken word as possible this month. Some of us like to achieve the goals we’ve set out, you know?

graduation

Did you pay close attention?

Well if you did then you might notice there are only 18 people there. Did the plague sweep through my high school? Were we the original group to encounter the Swine Flu? Was it Senior skip day?

Not necessarily. That might have been everyone.

And I’m very proud to say I was in the top 5% of my class, academically. Although having only like 10 male dating prospects truly sucked, I won’t ever have to endure the torture that is a class reunion. Cus really? Like any one of us would go to that. And like any one of us would take it upon ourselves to plan that. So BOO-YA. I bet all of you are wishing right now that you went to an overly strict, fundamental Baptist school which didn’t allow you to attend movies, wear pants, have unnatural colored highlights, more than two piercings per ear lobe, sleeveless shirts, open-toe shoes, or sit next to the opposite gender- but did accuse you of being in a gang.

We can’t all have perfect lives.

 

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Having To Tell You?

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[My mother unearthed several boxes of letters from my childhood. I have no clue why they were saved, but what’s mine is yours. And if there is one thing more ridiculous than my current life, it would have to be all the time leading up to my current life.  Hence, I started writing about these gems and refer to them as – the Open Letters]

If there’s one thing that I suck at more than commitment, it’s breaking those commitments.  And leaving bowls of half-eaten Eggos in the backseat of my car. But whatever. Sometimes a piece of toast sneaks in there, but only when things really get off the hook.

In other words, I’m non-confrontational.

And from the looks of these pictures and the following letter, that trait started long, long ago.

confrontation1

christmas

As I explained on my last blog So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes, I never dated until I was almost out of high school.  So you can imagine my shock, when after reading through these letters, I see that several boys thought they were dating me. I’m not sure if that was my fault or theirs. But I like to think that given the Baptist school setting, relationship lines were a bit blurred.  I’m pretty sure if you sat next to someone in Chapel [far enough apart so that a King James Bible could fit in between you, of course] then your families would be having a joint brunch that following Sunday to discuss whose aunt would be singing a hymn at the wedding.  If you’d like to read more about my Baptist school experience and how I used to be in a gang, please go here.

From what I can deduce, I received this letter circa 7th grade.  Apparently, the word on the street was that I was through with this guy, except I hadn’t bothered to tell him. Unfortunately, he failed to use his awesome observation skills to detect things like the proper spelling of my name, or say, punctuation.

love-letter2

For more Open Letters you can check out:

Open Letter: Rejection at it’s finest

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, your pants are burnt to a crisp

dsc_3619edit1P.S. Don’t forget to check out my latest photography post with the cutest munchkin around!  I’ve never lied to you. As far as you know.

 

So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes

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“The magic of first love is our ignorance that it will never end.”

You know I thought boys had cooties til I was about 17, right?  Up until that point, I viewed them only as despicable creatures sent to this earth as God’s punishment to Eve. It’s possible I fell asleep in a few Bible classes.  I also thought that babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds. I know it might be a bit too precautionary, but I still always buy seedless.

Growing up, all of my other girlfriends were much more advanced in the relationship  department.  They had “boyfriends” [or whatever the appropriate term would be for the guy that you’re not allowed to be in a closed-door room with but cheer for at football games].  They knew all the definitions of the “bases.”  They had someone to send them flowers on carnation day.

Puh-lease.

carnation-flowerLike I really wanted a cruddy, half-dead carnation anyway. Lame.  If the school would have hosted lasagna day, it might have been worth the inevitable hassle of claiming one of those smelly boys.  However, twas not my fate.

Then one day… wait a minute.

Hold the phone.

I met a smelly boy that changed everything.

My best friend set us up. I believe her exact words were: “There are two guys at my school that would be perfect for you.”  They both had brown hair and blue eyes according to the very detailed description of important details that was provided for me.  So I opted for the one who was “more funny.”  Of course, she had accidentally started dating the other one before I had a chance to meet either of them, so I guess I didn’t really have a choice.

BLUNT FACT: If ever given an option between two of anything, Blunt will always choose funny. Especially if the other options have anything to do with condiments, seafood, clowns, the Southwest, animals that bark, animals that shed, or Neil Diamond. But really, on a scale of 1–> infinity, how sick are we of the Neil Diamond references?

And on a scale of 1–> not a chance, what do you think is the possibility of me stopping?

So we met and instantly fell into premature love with reckless abandon. We ended up dating for 4 years. He was the sort of guy who would drive an hour to bring me a cough drop.  Or flowers on a Tuesday.

My Senior year, I was home sick and there was a snowstorm.  He was broke, as is the fate of every unemployed high school boy who grossly underestimates the cost of having a girlfriend.  He drove to my house and handed me a bouquet of sticks.  He said he’d picked them outside of school and he hoped that 1) he wouldn’t get another in-school suspension and 2) it would cheer me up.

I’m not one for sentimental crap, but to this day that is still my most favorite gift. I kept them in the back window of my car until I got in my car accident and they were lost among the wreckage.

That breakup was one of the hardest things I’ve ever gone through.  He was my first boyfriend, I was his first girlfriend.  I was crazy about him and he cherished me. We were best friends.  The breakup strung out for two torturous years because neither of us could fully let go. I could say that I had my reasons for leaving him, but the truth is – I was too young and immature to appreciate him.  We were so young that I never thought he would grow up. It was a classic case of bad timing.

I’ve never stopped thinking about him.  We had stayed in touch until before I left for London.  I had previously refused his attempts to get back together, but while I was in London, I truly missed him. I tried contacting him after I returned, thinking that maybe we had both come to the point where we could make it work.  I then discovered he had gotten married two weeks before I came back.

Three years went by.  He had moved. I had heard bits and pieces of how he was doing, but his wife forbade him from speaking to me.  I desperately hoped that he was happy.

Then, one day, I was answering calls at the bank and I heard his voice on the other line.

It was good to hear his voice.

So, what about your first love?

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

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[ In case you missed the first installment, please check out Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways and then because I got equal amounts of hater/lover responses to said blog, please check out my rebuttal entitled: Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much? ]

I guess hate is very strong word. When I think of hatred, only a few things come to mind: Nazi Germany, dead beat dads, Frasier, the DaVinci Code, and the unspoken singer which I reference on a consistent basis.  So I suppose I could classify my disposition toward women as mere frustration.  But I’m far too Italian and dramatic to use the word “frustrated.”  Pffft.

Recently, I noticed that my blog Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways, continues to get alot of attention. I often wonder, does this come as a surprise to you guys? I mean, after having dealt with women your whole lives, is it an overwhelming shock that some of us take issue with our own gender? Speaking of my own gender, blog comments such as this one, from “anonymous,” lead me to believe that some women might be taking my witty banter personally: 

“So you all comment on a website that is sexist and idiotic and down right harsh to women, you know how many women out there think that men are soo much worse than women but DON’T write stupid blogs about it! My god, go get a life and delete the blog it makes you sound like your childish!! shame on you.”

I use this comment as an illustration because it further proves my point on why I hate women. You can’t take a freaking joke? Holy mother of insanity.  Really?

I feel that some of you think I hate women for the sole purpose of sabotaging my own gender.  I assure you this isn’t so.  Thus, I’ve decided to continue what will turn out to be the second installment of a 7,893 part series on why I dislike women.  All of this isn’t to say men don’t have their issues. We all do. It just so happens, my chemical makeup is designed to more easily deal with their craziness than that of the female kind.  Our brand of crazy is particularly alarming. To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, there is currently a group of women reading this, who are placing me in one of the following categories:

1. I’m starved for male attention.

2. I’m a slut [I’m not sure how this conclusion is drawn, but just trust me, it will be]

3. I have a weird nose and/or smile [or some other cut-down based on my physical appearance]

In all actuality, I love normal women. And if using the word “heart,” didn’t send my body into convulsions, I might even say that I heart them. And by normal, I mean, women who are capable of the following:

1. Getting over it. Contrary to popular belief, there is no prize at stake, champ.  This isn’t the Grudge Olympics.  Or the Olympics of many things you can bring up during an argument that have nothing to do with what we’re actually arguing about.

2. Not making everything into a competition. Is it possible to be happy for another woman’s success?  And if a guy flirts with your friend rather than you, it doesn’t mean she’s better than you.  It just means he wants to flirt with her.  The next guy will want to flirt with you. And probably the next guy too. Stop taking it so personally, Spazzy McInsecureAlot.

3. Not forsaking their friends when they become obsessed with a relationship. Guess who’s gonna be there when you’re crying elephant tears and eating yourself ugly in about 6 months, which is precisely how long it will take you to figure out you made a tragic mistake?  Not Jerky McCheatsAlotandIToldYouHeWould, I’ll tell you that much.

blunt-joFolks, I’ve only scratched the surface.  As always, I welcome your thoughts, but only if they are concurrent with mine.

Speaking of women that I love, check out my latest photography post, with pictures of this hottie.

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