Monday, October 31, 2011
Thank God I didn't waste a single minute of my life watching the wedding episode on E!
Shame on Ryan Seacrest for bring the Kardashians to television. Shame on Kris Humphries for agreeing to participate in any of this bullshit-- although he always did seem too rational and down to earth for tranny face. Shame on Kris Jenner for playing puppet master in all of this. And shame on all of us for making these people famous. My guess is this divorce is just another PR stunt and once fat ass gets wind of the backlash, we'll get a statement that says they're trying to work on things. Don't do it, Humphries. Run like the wind! Sadly, I'm sure the guy signed a confidentiality agreement and we'll never know how they conned him into marrying her in the first place.
I don't understand why we're spending billions of dollars fighting middle eastern terrorists abroad when the real middle eastern terrorists are right here in Los Angeles. The Kardashians must be stopped! Let's hope their next reality show is called Kim and Kourtney go to Guantanamo.
But I think the real reason I'd rather BLOW OFF October 31st is because it makes me feel old. I really miss being a kid on Halloween. Those days were the best. Roseanne was still on the air with the best ever Halloween episodes, and you got to go trick or treating. Sigh. How I miss feeling the weight of my pillow case as it filled with Tootsie Rolls and bite sized Snickers. And those Sugar Daddies that took like five hours to eat. I miss the hour I'd spend after trick-or-treating, meticulously counting my candy and organizing it by brand (wait, did I have OCD?)
Once I got older, Halloween turned into a steady progression of suckage. I got dumped by the guy that took my virginity on Halloween. The next year, I freaked out my first time trying ecstasy. Then, a couple years later I got into the most epic of fights with my two besties at a Halloween party, while throwing myself at a co-worker who rejected me. And one year...I was stuck in traffic for two hours driving from West Hollywood to Los Feliz. Worst of all, the H bomb is like the Grinch that stole Halloween, so I never get to do all those "cute" couple costumes that Seal and Heidi Klum do. My Bonnie would be short a Clyde. It's like I'm...SINGLE...on Halloween. Scary.
Halloween just further proves that Thanksgiving is the best holiday ever. You get to wear normal clothes (or dress up like an Indian or a Pilgrim if you're feeling adventurous!), you get to eat a shit ton of food, it's always on a Thursday so you always get Friday off, and generally you don't have to worry about sick fucks hiding razor blades in your cranberry sauce. So, today...on Halloween, I'd like to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving in 25 days or at least a steady stream of Roseanne reruns.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmm that you only meant well?
well of course you did
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmmm that it's all for the best?
of course it is
Mmmm whatcha say?
Mmmm that it's just what we need
you decided this.
-Imogen Heap, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2011
You should definitely never EVER meet someone at last call in New York City. Why? Because in New York, bars stay open 'til 4am, which means you are probably even more drunk and even with two extra hours to meet someone, you still couldn't hack it. Chances are if a homeless man exposes himself to you on the corner, you'd wake up spooning him in Tompkins Square Park.
I once met a guy I was really excited about at a time even later than last call. First call at the pizza place next door to the bar. Sal's pizza on Avenue A to be more specific. This was back in 2005 when it was still next door to Niagara on the corner of 7th and A. Yes, he seemed pretty inebriated...but he was sober enough to order pizza and eat it standing up which was a good sign, right? His name was West or Weston or some shit like that. From what I remember, we had some good banter going. And look how cute we look in that picture (I mean, I'm practically planning our wedding in my head in that shot). Like all girls who project into the future after one twenty minute conversation, I thought he was going to be the next big thing in my life. We exchanged numbers and he never called me. I even made the "what do I have to lose?" phone call and left him a message, but he blew me off and didn't call back. He a) didn't remember meeting me at all b) remembered meeting me, but mistakenly thought I was a very short tranny hooker or c) he abided by the last call rule in dating. It's bad enough to go out with someone you met at last call, but the girl at the pizza place? Oh, hell no.
Nothing good ever comes out of last call. Just a really awkward morning after and or in my case, unnecessary heartache. If you disagree, comment below. If you agree and got a bad case of gonorrhea the last time you went home with someone you met at last call, comment below.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
I hate girls who...do not have firm opinions.
I love girls who...are Miss Independent. See NeYo song.
My worst break up was...when I had to kick a girl out of my place, that I was forced to offer to her, because she was an illegal Polish immigrant, suffering from anxiety and depression, and was unemployed. I thought I could help her in some way, but I came to resent the fact my parents liked her more than me. Then again, they like most people more than me. Plus, she told them I was an alcoholic, when only that alcohol is my favorite drink. Big difference.
My easiest break up was...all the time. I just casually don't call a girl for long periods of time so that she'll know it's not serious. I'll never divulge anything deep about myself, so she won't feel like she knows me or has "gotten to know" me.
My three deal breakers are...smoking, doesn't drink, and doesn't want kids. Those three go together like Donald and Ivana, Burt and Lonnie, Mia and Woody...
I've been in love...(love is the most arbitrary of terms. I love a lot. I'm passionate. I may be think about 2 girls in my past and hope they found someone better than me)....times.
I've broken (broken is an arbitrary term as well. I am so difficult, I know. Maybe 5? Although, I am "that guy" who acts like a real dick and shows all my WORST qualities, so that the girl feels better about the break up before it happens, so who knows) hearts.
My go to sad break up song is...Tupac "changes"- We gotta make a change!
My go to "fuck you" break up song is...Dr. Dre "Bitches Ain't Shit."
Angelina Jolie...'s lips were the first body part that has given me a full on erection. Other than boobs and butts.
Reality TV is...a drag along, low pay off, tease.
Read more about Kevin's exploits on his blog The Silicon Valley Bachelor.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Let’s talk about you. Do you have any self-inflicted burns or scars? Are there multiple restraining orders against you? Did you pierce your tongue with a needle and an ice cube? Do you post videos of yourself masturbating on the Internet? Do you see a shrink twice weekly?
If you answered yes to any of these, then I’m interested. Because I'm looking for a crazy bitch who will wreak havoc on my life.
Me: 27, six foot, lawyer. Recently my dating life has gotten really boring. I seem to attract a specific type of girl: structured, “school smart,” and sexless. Think Dorothy. They say things like “I'll have a shirley temple” and "I was really inspired by Barbara Boxer's recent speech to the judiciary committee" and "Who’s Stanley Kubrick?” Frankly, I’m tired of it.
Some of my friends date crazy chicks. They get into drunken fights in the middle of street at 3 AM, throw plates at each other, and sleep with other people to prove a point. These girls usually have tattoos, are bisexual, and supposedly give the best blowjobs.
I want a girl like this. I want to do something I've never done before. For once, I want to date a totally fucking crazy chick.
Our ideal first date would go something like this. We make plans to meet at a bar. You show up forty minutes late. Your eyes are puffy and red. You tell me you’d ran into one of your asshole ex-boyfriends on the street and bitched him out in front of all his stupid friends. You seem very drunk. You order two shots of whiskey and down them both. You excuse yourself. An hour passes. I notice a crowd has gathered out in the street. You return without any shoes, then quickly duck away again when two uniformed police officers arrive and start questioning the bartender. I go to use the men’s room and find you making out with another guy in one of the stalls. I return to the bar and find myself in conversation with a Dorothy seated next to me. She graduated from Pepperdine with a double major in business administration/econ and currently works for Deloitte. Suddenly you’re back, your lips pressed against mine, sticking your tongue down my throat. You turn to Dorothy and tell that cunt to get lost, this man’s spoken for, bitch. We go back to your place and have a threesome with your bisexual roommate Zonofria, who spends her days creating elaborate paintings made entirely out of bodily secretions. The next morning you wake me up because you have to take your son to kindergarten.
In the ensuing months you will slash my tires, tell me you love me, poison my cat, tell me you hate me, and introduce me to David Lynch movies. Your timing will be impeccable; you will always reserve your worst blow-ups for dinners with my family, the office Christmas party, or the night before my big trial. At least once you will make me get out of bed in the middle of the night and come over to your place or else you’re gonna down this entire fucking bottle of Lamictal, like right now and I'm not even joking. We will run into one of your exes nearly every time we go out. You will have an affair with one of them and find a way to blame me.
Shoot me a message if you’re a crazy chick who wants to tear my life to pieces. If you’re wondering about my interests or hobbies, please realize that my only interest once we meet will be managing your unpredictable mood swings and trying to talk you out of putting a brick through my windshield.
What I’m doing with my life
Blocking your phone calls, filing for a restraining order, covering my bruises with concealer.
I’m really good at
I’m looking for
Girls who like guys
For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating, activity partners, long-distance penpals, casual sex
You should message me if
Thursday, October 20, 2011
But really, this means as early as our pre-teens, we've been taught that the way to relate to the opposite sex is to flirt with them. I've noticed that this can be distressing to people once they're in relationships. We're so accustomed to interacting with each other via flirt that it's kind of hard to pack it in once you're committed to someone. We think we're being outgoing and friendly...when in fact we're being slightly inappropriate.
The H-bomb had this problem and it used to be the source of much conflict early on in our relationship. And it usually involved waitresses. For some reason, most guys can't order food off a menu without being a little too jokey with the girl serving them. My dad had this problem too and he's like a really good husband. We're not talking hard-core flirting here (like "if the rack of lamb is as good as your rack, I'll take it to go") BUT it was just borderline enough where I swear the waitress was giving me "I'm so sorry" looks.
I finally had to explain to him that there's a difference between being friendly and pleasant and flirting with a person. It took him a little time to figure out what I was talking about and I think for awhile the poor guy was so self conscious, he ordered food using the same verbal intonations as E.T. But now he's stays on topic and knows to wear a cup to dinner so I don't kick him in the nuts under the table if he starts talking to Mandy like they're life long friends.
What do you think, readers? Is flirting harmless or should we all reign it in a little once we're off the market?
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I hate guys who... don't have a sense of humor about themselves.
I love guys who... can quote Shakespeare but laugh at a fart joke.
My worst break up was... heart-breaking.
My easiest break up was... with that guy I never called back. Do I still owe him an explanation?
My three deal breakers are... Republicans, cigarettes, and road rage.
I've been in love 4 times
I've had my heart broken 2 times
I've broken 2 hearts
My go to sad break up song is..... Poetic Justice by Maura O'Connell.
My go to "fuck you" break up song is... You're So Vain by Carly Simon.
Angelina Jolie... is badass.
Reality TV.... is just ass.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
It's a good rule of thumb for guys and girls to follow. Just think about your history of relationship successes VS failures. How long did that relationship that started out all tumultuous and confusing actually last you? Two months, tops. On the flip side, if you're heading into your third year with someone...I'm guessing things felt a little seamless and easy from the get-go. Sure, maybe there were some games played at first, but no major personal affronts along the way. Like...he only calls me at two in the morning or she only orgasms when I'm wearing a clown mask.
Strikes should not be confused with red flags. If a person has no strikes against them (i.e. they haven't done anything bad to you), but they've got a lot of red flags (they don't like to travel or they laugh a little too hard at racist jokes) chances are you'll probably keep dating them.
*A girl who only orgasms when you're wearing a clown mask. Okay, technically this is a red flag-- so never mind.
*A guy/girl who's not consistent about calling or texting or making dates. I dated a guy like this in New York. I would savor the periods of time where he was waiting for me to get back to him, because I knew the second I replied to that text or voice mail, I would be stuck in dating purgatory yet again. This person lacks common courtesy when it comes to you. Steee-rike!
*A guy or girl who gives you the "I don't want anything serious" speech a few dates in. This totally counts as a strike and not a red flag. First of all, it's presumptuous. Second of all, I've used this line before...on people I'm not interested in. So, this person just doesn't like you or is trying to tell you that they will most likely not end up liking you. I consider that a personal affront.
*Anyone who is so obsessed with their friends that all of your dates consist of you meeting up with him/her and their social circle. This is a strike and not just a red flag, because it means this person doesn't think you're worth their alone time.
*Anyone who is vegan. This is a personal affront on your palette. Okay, I'm just kidding. I went vegan for three weeks and I liked it. Plus, I'm really hoping JKeithVanRappin writes a post about vegan speed dating soon.
*Anybody who makes a date with you and then totally stands you up. This actually counts as two strikes. A good friend of mine waited at her apartment for a guy to pick her up for a date for three hours. He finally called to tell her he'd just woken up and slept through their date. The silver lining to this story is that she was totally not into him and his behavior gave her the perfect out.
Any other dating strikes you guys want to share? Cause if we're going to be totally honest, I'm not all that interested in hearing them. Soliciting comments for your blog is totally lame and desperate so, please spare me and do not comment on this post. Don't do it. I said DO NOT comment on this post. I mean, seriously, what part of do not comment on this post don't you understand? No means NO! I triple dog dare you to comment.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Seriously, was this photo taken in Sears? What's with the cheapo wine barrels and fake plastic grapes? And who put his outfit together? A grey blazer, a black vest, a blue shirt, with black jeans and brown shoes. Oh, no they didn't!
That said, I cannot wait to start re-capping this shit come January 2nd! 2012 just got a whole lot better. For Ben's sake, I just hope the women on the show are there for the right reasons.
BTW, thanks to Claire for bringing this photo to our attention.
But the whole family/relationship thing can get super complicated when it comes to a BLOW OFF. Like-- does breaking up with someone mean you can never talk to their family again? (pretty much). Do you have to delete them on Facebook? (Not necessarily) Do you have to stop spending holidays with them? (Yes). I guess it all just depends on how long you were dating and how close you actually got to their family members. I once had to tell a certain family member that their ex's relationship status on Facebook had been changed to "in a relationship." She was devastated. I decided it was time to hide him from my news feed.
And what happens when your parents LOVE the guy you're about to dump? A friend of mine was super nervous to tell her parents she was breaking up with her boyfriend, because they were kind of set on him becoming their son-in-law. Months after she broke the news to them, she found out her dad and the ex had been staying in touch over email. She was not okay with it. And I don't blame her. You can't have a clean break if the guy is still having a bromance with your father.
So, readers-- any good stories about breaking up with someone's family? Comment below!
Also, thanks to this amazing scene from Parenthood for inspiring this post. If you guys aren't watching this show, you're nuts.
Friday, October 14, 2011
"Candy, Candy, Candy, I can't let you go. All my life you're haunting me, I love you so. Candy, Candy, Candy, I can't let you go. Life is crazy. I know, baby."
-Iggy Pop, 1990
Thursday, October 13, 2011
There’s this really great scene in an early Parks & Recreation episode where a Venezuelan delegation visits Pawnee. During the introductions, each member of that delegation expresses their desire for Donna who they call the “sexy black one” to everyone’s surprise. Addressing the camera, Donna confidently explains with a knowing smile that she’s not surprised at all; she’d been to South America and had done “very well there”. I laughed my ass off at that scene because, if you swap South America for Europe, that has been my story for a long, long time.
I grew up tall, black, dorky, and studious in Northern Virginia.I was the odd girl of immigrant parents from Africa (well before Africa was cool) who if you asked what she was doodling in her notebook, would reply solemnly “working on my novel.” So, as a result and despite getting my boobs before everyone else, I was left out of the dating scene in the same fashion I assume lepers are rejected. Until I was about 19, I assumed men just didn’t like me. In fact, experience proved they didn’t and I started to make my peace with that. Sounds dramatic in retrospect but up to that point, no one had so much as held my hand. And I’d only been asked out as a joke on the ever-hilarious Opposite Day and the occasional Ugly Girl Day. So, at 19, I’d already lost all hope and thought “well, men don’t like me, then I guess I’ll just do whatever I want all the time.” The second part of that remains my mantra, by the way.
But a funny thing happened on the way to lifelong Virginity. I studied abroad in London. It was a turning point in my life for many reasons and I often call it the year that I was born. London was the first place I ever lived where I actually fit. I was encouraged for the first time to be a writer. I met incredible, creative, open people. And I met men who found me attractive. The problem was, I didn’t believe them. And it would be years before I could believe a guy would ask me out and mean it as anything other than a joke. So not only did I reject every (in)decent proposal, I became angry at their advances; humiliated and in disbelief that this kind of cruelty had followed me across the ocean. Inevitably, I was still date-less and kiss-free when I returned to the US. But London planted a little hopeful seed in my heart. What if they weren’t joking? Was it possible that someone might actually want to kiss me?
I was determined to find out so when I received a coveted internship at a prestigious theatre in London after graduation, I jumped at the chance. My best friend got an internship in Parliament and we set off for the time of our lives. I embraced everything about that trip. I made out and dated like a fiend. I played catch-up. It was criminal. And intoxicating. Men of every nationality showed interest and I began to trust that they weren’t joking. I was further encouraged by my student-discounted trips to Italy Cyprus & Scotland; even in those varied countries the response to my dorkiness was lust. I couldn’t believe my luck! Just to keep my ego in check, however, whenever I encountered American men abroad, they continued to treat me with the same disdain I was used to at home. What, I wondered, made the difference?
A British cousin of mine explained that men in Europe had a broader view of what was attractive; they appreciated women in all of their varieties. She looked very similar to me and, as a British lass, had never been without a boyfriend so she was shocked to hear my stories from home. Her reasoning made sense, though, and was validated by a gentleman caller who said with a shrug "here, a beautiful woman is a beautiful woman." In the US, there’s lots of talk about types, down to body parts and hair color. Abroad, I experienced none of that nonsense. Their wider view of what’s attractive allowed me to have a dating life for the first time. In London, I was still obviously tall, black, dorky and studious but I was also considered beautiful, interesting and, well, desirable. It was a total mindfuck. What I was experiencing in real life was also reflected in their popular culture; the black or overweight or plain girl on TV also had dates, a boyfriend, a life. They weren’t relegated to playing the sassy, supportive friend of the thin, hot lead. There were no John Mayer-like rants from their male celebrities. But I had my sassy black friend act all sewn up...was it possible that I’d have a chance to play the lead in my own life? Huh.
It was during my time in London that I crafted my plan to move to New York City. I’d been trying to leave Virginia since I was seven and knew that after this experience, I’d need a big city. I had hopes that a city as diverse, international and seemingly liberal as New York would allow me a full life. After all, Sex & The City promised it would. I allowed myself to leave London with hope about this new adventure…
…but, alas, New York equaled a return to tumbleweeds. Anyone who decides to live in New York will at some point have a very difficult time living there. And I did. But what I remember most clearly was the abyss of utter and complete loneliness I felt and the sheer joy I experienced when I got accepted into the graduate writing program of my first and only choice in, you guessed it, London. I proceeded to have what I consider to be the two most perfect years of my life. I was writing all the time, seeing shows, studying hard and finally, again, dating. After graduation, I stayed for another year, putting off the inevitable return to forced celibacy in the US. But I knew I couldn’t live in Fantasy Land forever. Seriously, I couldn’t get a visa. So back to New York I went with a renewed focus on my writing and a resolve to just be as happy as possible regardless of what greeted me there. This time around, New York treated me very well professionally and I had a dream living situation. And, eventually, I met the guy I dated for a little over a year. And he was American! Well, half American…but didn’t grow up here so not really all that American at all...but nonetheless, we dated. It wasn’t perfect. And it ended badly but I met some of my best friends through that connection and an introduction to a new city that now has a permanent place in my life.
While nearing the end of that relationship, I decided I would finally move to LA. Well-meaning East Coast friends helpfully mentioned that if I had problems dating on the East Coast, I wouldn’t have a chance with small-minded, superficial Californians who only dated blondes. Or Asians. I was neither (see: Africa). But California had been in my heart since high school and I couldn’t put off my dream of moving there any longer just because I was afraid I couldn’t get a date. So, last year, I steeled myself for another lonely spell and drove across the country telling myself “You only have to do two years there, then you’ll find a way to move back to London for good.”
Well, here’s what actually happened when I arrived. I got asked out on a date. On a few dates. In America! By American men! In Los Angeles! Without being blonde! I was stunned. Could LA be my new London? Maybe it was East Coasters who were small-minded and superficial. Maybe I’d grown up on the wrong coast my whole life. Maybe my inexplicable pull toward California was about more than my career. Could it be? I was thrown for a roller coaster-sized loop-de-loop. Do Californians secretly have the more worldly, open, European view of attractiveness that the East Coast thinks it owns?
Recently, my bestie came to town on business and confirmed what I’d suspected: “It’s almost like London here! But with more sunshine”.
Perhaps I’ve just finally found the place in my own country where I fit. Where I can have a career and, dare I dream it, a date. Maybe this is it. Here’s hoping.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Generally speaking, it's single people who find gushy couples most offensive, but even when I got into a relationship, I would still gag at the first sign of uber-gush. You might think this all stems from some deep rooted childhood abandonment issues, but I grew up in a household where "I love you" was uttered all the time. My parents have always been affectionate and emotionally present. Maybe the fact that love wasn't lacking in my family life made me less needy for it in other relationships, but there's a lot of psycho babble in that. I know a lot of people with great families who still go for the gush, while sticking their tongues so far down their boyfriends throats that they may for reals be giving them an internal BJ...even in front of their single friends who currently have no romantic prospects. Not okay.
I prefer to gush behind closed doors, because I don't want to annoy people. I'm genuinely happy for the peeps who want to shout their love from the rooftops (or on Facebook walls), but I'm also genuinely irritated by them. Maybe I'm just empathizing with the fact that it's salt in the wound for anyone that's hurting over a relationship. Or maybe I'd just rather get my freak on in private.
Let's just say I'd be the type of celebrity that would give generic answers about my relationship in interviews, but not because I claimed it was "too sacred" to discuss publicly. BUT all of my irritability issues aside, perhaps I should just stop fighting it and join the gushers. I gushed on Facebook recently about a blog post the H-bomb wrote for his company. It was hard, but I got through it. I gushed in my wedding vows (which, lucky for me was a perfectly acceptable forum for it) and I didn't pass out afterward which is a good sign. But I did break out in hives. That's not true, but I did get a really bad runny nose. I'm not sure if there's a connection there.
What do you think, readers? Am I being a sourpuss? Is this the first time you've heard that term since fifth grade? And more importantly, are you the gushy type or not? comment below!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
I take 1, 1, 1 cause you left me and
2, 2, 2 for my family and
3, 3, 3 for my heartache and
4, 4, 4 for my headaches and
5, 5, 5 for my lonely and
6, 6, 6 for my sorrow and
7, 7 for no no no tomorrow and
8, 8 I forget what 8 was for and
9, 9, 9 for a lost god and
10, 10, 10, 10 for everything
everything everything everything.
-Violent Femmes, 1983
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Well, guess what?! If you skip the fucking and get right to the blowing off, then what do we get out of it?
I know what you're thinking. "If we have sex with you, you'll get attached, and you'll freak out when we decide it's not working". This is all accurate, but chances are, we'll get attached without the sex and freak out on you anyway...so why shouldn't both of us get laid in the whole crappy process?
I dated a guy once for about a month who seemed really into me in the beginning. We had a few hot and heavy make out sessions, but things eventually fizzled out and that was that. I liked him a lot (good banter can go a long way), so I was bummed out that it didn't work, but I was also really annoyed there was no sex involved. Not closing the deal actually made me pine after him more. I was rejected and left to wonder whether or not the sex would have ever been as hot as the make out sessions. PLUS, it would have been nice to see my "number" go up by one. A small difference I know, but enough to make me look back on my twenties as wild and adventurous.
Anyway, at the time I remember venting about the situation to my friends and describing it as totally pointless "because we didn't even have sex." Yikes. That sounds like something a hoochie mama would say. But I've had other hoochie mama friends say the exact same thing. Why go through all the hassle without any of the fun? It turns out the pre-sex BLOW OFFS might actually be worse than post-sex BLOW OFFS...which means the guys that aren't putting out are actually the bigger assholes.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
So...in normal people dating life, the length of a relationship usually delineates the form of the BLOW OFF.
I hate guys who...lie.
I love guys who...read the New York Times.
My worst break up was...with my boyfriend of nine years.
My easiest break up was...with the guy who prioritized our friendship over sex.
My three deal breakers are... not voting, addictions, bad taste in movies.
I've been in love 2 times.
My go to sad break up song is.....House of Cards by Radiohead.
My go to "fuck you" break up song is....Irreplaceable by Beyonce.
Angelina Jolie...is a little too cool for school.
Reality TV....makes me hide under my couch – as I watch it.
Do you want to be featured in our super cool BLOW OFF questionnaire column? Email us at email@example.com
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
During my final quarter of college, I met a guy in a bar named Matt. He was visiting town with a friend of a friend, a little older than me and worked at a company that rhymes with Snapple. We hit it off right away. And even though the combination of his taste in clothing and appreciation of my sass and humor made me question his sexuality, I continued to flirt with him until he left the bar. A bit later in the evening, and at a different venue, we reunited on a dance floor. After a little making out (classy) we assumed each other as dates for the evening until the bars closed and I proceeded to go home without him. Matt insisted that I put my number into his iPhone (obviously) and after he gave me the "my friends left me down here because we all thought I was getting laid" speech I informed him that I didn't usually bring guys home. He then responded with, "You say usually like I have a chance." Smooth.
After assuring him that he didn't, I began to receive a ton of shit from my friends about how this was our senior year, and you only live once...when I got a text from Matt asking me to come back. Somewhere, in the midst of writing a lengthy response back, (describing that I had a twin bed and wouldn't actually sleep with him) it was decided that he'd come back to my house. The night was fun and innocent enough. We talked a lot and as far as my first bringing-a-random-guy-I-just met-at-bar experience it seemed to go pretty well. The next morning we chatted about my "exciting" post college life, and then he dropped an H-bomb on me and said that he'd be enrolling in Harvard Business in the fall. Say, what? When he left my house I assumed that I'd never see him again and was proud of myself for nearly bagging an Ivy Leaguer the first time I decided to behave somewhat slutty.
After that, Matt continued to periodically text me and I usually responded without pursuing any more of a conversation. The last time I heard from him was when he added me to his LinkedIn account, with a friendly message asking how/what I was doing. I chose to accept the request and ignore the convo. As if he thought I was going to fall for another line of digital communication? I have this weird desire for former flings to upgrade after me, (obviously I want to be replaced by a better model) so naturally I'm assuming that he's now banging Tyra Banks.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I have to say, this is kind of genius. It forces couples to stay married for at least two years which means less chance of freaking out one year in and calling the whole thing off. Apparently, half of all marriages end in divorce in Mexico City-- mostly in year one. And then after two years they can just end it without going through a long drawn out divorce. So, maybe it at least forces them to stay on their best behavior for a couple of years and hold out on the crazy 'til year three.
I would be pretty terrible at the whole marriage contract thing. I'd totally be the girl that would scream shit in fights like "I can't wait for our stupid marriage contract to expire already" OR "200 more days to go and I'm out!" Yeah, I'd pretty much just keep threatening to let the marriage lapse only to have it all blow up in my face when my psychotic behavior made my hubba hubby call it quits. OMG. I just thought of something? What if you were going through a normal rocky period right before the contract end date and had no idea whether your husband or wife wanted to renew the contract or just cut you loose? I 'm way too fragile for that. I'd most likely cope with that by getting really drunk and belligerent and saying things like "I know you're gonnnnna diiivooorce meeeee, shithead." Man, the more I think about it, the more I really hope this law passes so we can start a Spanish language version of the BLOW OFF.
Anyway, what do you think readers? Two year marriage license: yay or nay?