This has got to be the most offensive thing you can ask someone. “Hey, you don’t have a life, any prospects or things to do…why don’t you watch this animal which is touted as being fully self-sufficient?” Based on those reasons alone, I am often asked to watch other people’s cats. It’s completely insulting. What’s worse? I don’t listen and I’m lazy, so not one of these “favors” I’m supposedly doing for other people has actually ever resulted in appropriate cat tending.
The first cat watching I ever did was for my friend Jenny. Jenny is terrifying to begin with, and I knew if I fucked this up she would literally murder me. I tried incredibly hard to pay attention as she described the wet food/dry food mixture I was to abide by. After that, she mentioned something about ice cubes in the cat water at which point I basically blacked out. There’s something else that doesn’t fit into my “cat watcher” profile and that’s the fact that I fucking hate cats… they know too much.
I remember being pretty excited on the day I went to watch Jenny’s cats and this was largely due to the fact that she kept a carton of cigarettes in her freezer and I was fresh out. Score! Once I stole a pack, I was ready to attend to the wretched cats. I did everything Jenny asked me to and even took a few matters into my own hands by closing closet doors and putting the toilet seat down. I was pretty proud of myself. That is until three days later when Jenny got home and informed me that her cats had shit all over the shoes in her closet seeing as I had closed the door to the litter box closet. HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE THE LITTER BOX IS?! WHY DOESN’T THE CLOSET THAT HOLDS YOUR CLOTHES COME WITH A DOOR?! She claims it was pretty obvious, but so was the bottle of Jack Daniels I found in her kitchen... so I was a little preoccupied. Get off my back.
What’s crazy is that I relayed this entire scenario to my friend Rob and he then asked me to watch his cats. Ultimately, I don’t feel like I can be held responsible for what happened at his house. He had been warned. The sad thing is I was actually trying. I wanted to be good at watching cats, merely for ego reasons, but I kept getting waylaid by my deep hatred of the wretched little know-it-alls. That, combined with the general indifference I feel when it comes to doing things for others. Again, I wasn’t listening when Rob gave me my cat instructions, but I’m certain I felt like I was at the time. I didn’t notice the suitcases I had to walk over when I finally made it over to Rob’s house. I checked the water which seemed to be at a reasonable level as were the food dishes. Furthermore, the litter box was pristine. I called Rob to tell him the good news only to find out he had already vacationed and returned home. Turns out I was a little late in getting over there. Strike mother fucking two.
I know what you’re asking yourself, “Why the fuck did your idiot friends keep asking you to watch cats?” Honestly, I have no idea. I think it’s because they hate me but lo and behold, one week later, my friend Paul asked if I would watch his cat.
On the surface, watching Paul’s cat was a huge success. I was there at the correct time, did food and poop duties excellently, I even petted the horrid creature. However, everything backfired when I accidentally banged Paul. IT WAS A TRICK! Think about it... Paul could have asked anyone to watch his cat and he knew I was in a vulnerable place after failing twice before. After the run I’d had, it would be only natural that I wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty, which in this case meant sleeping with Paul. If he was a real friend, he would have understood that I was really working through something, but instead, he took advantage of me.
Paul’s was the last cat I ever watched. These days, if people ask me to watch their fleabags I tell them the truth, “I would…but the last time I did that, I ended up getting herpes. No, thank you.”
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Grandma
The holidays always remind me of what a bitch my grandma is. It was two years ago on a snowy Chicago day that my grandma fucked me over by epic proportions, and I will never forgive her for her shrewishness.
I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.
Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.
On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.
I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.
After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.
Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.
This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”
FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.
Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.
After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.
I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.
Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.
On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.
I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.
After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.
Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.
This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”
FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.
Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.
After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Lady
I begin a lot of sentences by talking about jamming a dildo into my asshole and lately this behavior has garnered a slew of sideway glances and jaw-dropping horror from my lady friends. It’s possible that this has always been the case but it took me a while to notice it. It’s hard to give things your full attention when you’re eating a delicious plate of cheeseburgers. (Mmmm….cheeseburgers). Anyway, it got me thinking. What is a lady? This mystical creature that men seem to pine for. I’ve heard a lot about them and decided to put some effort into being one. I have zero ideas as to what being a lady actually entails. All I know is that I’m not doing it. I can tell because I’ve seen a lady before and men always treat them differently. The most common thing a man ever says to me is, “What’s your friend’s name?” Or, “Um…there’s mustard on your eyebrow.” Or, “How can you be sure it’s my baby?” Not exactly lady material. So I googled the word “lady” to see if perhaps I could change my ways.
HOW TO ACT LIKE A LADY:
Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible
Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.
Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?
Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.
HOW TO ACT LIKE A LADY:
Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible
Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.
Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?
Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
A Rock and 2 Mexicans
I’ve never been very lucky where love is concerned but I AM familiar with matters of the heart. I would even go so far as to call myself a romantic. I believe it is this dreamy romanticism that has always gotten me into trouble. Despite the horrible behavior of several men, I have a knack for glomming on to minutia and storing it away into the “He Loves Me” box. And while I have always been horribly wrong, my misperceptions have often protected me when the truth could not.
Peter and I had been friends for years. We were so close, in fact, that when my boyfriend at the time came home with a cat and I refused to house it, I gave it to Peter. Years later, Peter asked me to watch said cat while he was out of town. Somewhere in there, we made-out.
As usual, I immediately fell in love with Peter and I was sure he was in love with me.
My Perception:
We had already been friends for years so clearly we had a deep, emotional connection.
He asked me to watch his cat which meant that he trusted me.
We made-out which meant he was deeply attracted to me.
The Truth:
People are friends sometimes.
Watching someone’s cat is a bullshit job and most people would gladly have a stranger do it.
Zillions of people make-out with people they don’t know or like, literally every day.
Sadly, I was caught up in my perception and unable to see the truth at that moment. After talking to some girlfriends, they orchestrated a test in which I would be able to precisely determine whether or not Peter was in love with me. I was to invite him to my birthday party and see what he did.
So I did. I threw a bbq that began at 11am. At around 10pm, two Mexican women showed up looking for Peter.
My Perception:
Peter wants me to meet his friends!
The Truth:
Peter likes to bang Mexicans.
My friends were not impressed and tried to point out to me the unreasonableness of the situation but I would not be deterred. At 11pm, Peter showed up...wasted…WITH A PRESENT!!! I was glowing and giggling and could not wait to see what he got me. As I opened the gift, leaves fell out…I dug deeper, and some twigs fell out…then I got to a chocolate bar…and then at the very bottom, I found a pile of rocks. I was laughing hysterically as I thought this was the funniest gift I had ever received and that Peter, who was clearly in love with me, got it specifically for me cause he knew I would understand the hilarity of it all. Cause we just get each other.
Sadly, this didn’t fly with my friends. My friend John pulled me aside and said, “Alison, I know you’re thinking that this is great because he got you a rock and two Mexicans…but he got you A ROCK and TWO MEXICANS.” The way he slowed it down the second time, while holding my arm and glaring at me, made me understand that this was not a good sign. Ultimately, Peter and I never got beyond our first make-out session. He’s married now and last I heard he still has my cat.
Perceptions are tricky. They’re certainly nice to rely on when you don’t want to get bad news from your friends but in the end, it was better to know the truth. Peter stole my cat and he’s a racist.
Peter and I had been friends for years. We were so close, in fact, that when my boyfriend at the time came home with a cat and I refused to house it, I gave it to Peter. Years later, Peter asked me to watch said cat while he was out of town. Somewhere in there, we made-out.
As usual, I immediately fell in love with Peter and I was sure he was in love with me.
My Perception:
We had already been friends for years so clearly we had a deep, emotional connection.
He asked me to watch his cat which meant that he trusted me.
We made-out which meant he was deeply attracted to me.
The Truth:
People are friends sometimes.
Watching someone’s cat is a bullshit job and most people would gladly have a stranger do it.
Zillions of people make-out with people they don’t know or like, literally every day.
Sadly, I was caught up in my perception and unable to see the truth at that moment. After talking to some girlfriends, they orchestrated a test in which I would be able to precisely determine whether or not Peter was in love with me. I was to invite him to my birthday party and see what he did.
So I did. I threw a bbq that began at 11am. At around 10pm, two Mexican women showed up looking for Peter.
My Perception:
Peter wants me to meet his friends!
The Truth:
Peter likes to bang Mexicans.
My friends were not impressed and tried to point out to me the unreasonableness of the situation but I would not be deterred. At 11pm, Peter showed up...wasted…WITH A PRESENT!!! I was glowing and giggling and could not wait to see what he got me. As I opened the gift, leaves fell out…I dug deeper, and some twigs fell out…then I got to a chocolate bar…and then at the very bottom, I found a pile of rocks. I was laughing hysterically as I thought this was the funniest gift I had ever received and that Peter, who was clearly in love with me, got it specifically for me cause he knew I would understand the hilarity of it all. Cause we just get each other.
Sadly, this didn’t fly with my friends. My friend John pulled me aside and said, “Alison, I know you’re thinking that this is great because he got you a rock and two Mexicans…but he got you A ROCK and TWO MEXICANS.” The way he slowed it down the second time, while holding my arm and glaring at me, made me understand that this was not a good sign. Ultimately, Peter and I never got beyond our first make-out session. He’s married now and last I heard he still has my cat.
Perceptions are tricky. They’re certainly nice to rely on when you don’t want to get bad news from your friends but in the end, it was better to know the truth. Peter stole my cat and he’s a racist.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
I work at a law firm. There is a common misconception floating around that a law firm job is a serious matter to be treated with the utmost respect and dignity. Someone should tell this to my bosses who I am certain are trying to kill me. This knowledge doesn't minimize my utter astonishment when, each day, these men berate and degrade me. One of my boss' favorite things to do is come out of his office, demand I get him coffee and scream, "you're fired!" He then laughs as though this is the funniest thing that's ever happened. I am the victim in this scenario and despite my repeated attempts to survive the daily barrage of insults and death threats, I continually fall into their traps.
The other day, as I was heading out of the office for my 40th cig break of the day, I ran into my boss. It should be noted that I'm a legal assistant so basically everyone is my boss. I am on the bottom of the totem pole evident by the constant verbal abuse and demands that are hurled my way.
My Boss: What are you doing?
Me: Attempting to smoke.
My Boss: You're gonna die. Come get a flu shot.
So I did. Cause the terror inflicted upon me by these men coupled by my inability to not wander off, always has me saying yes to scenarios that I should likely avoid. On any given day, I find myself meandering around aimlessly and next thing ya know I'm getting man-handled by a stranger. Enter Elva.
I'm not sure if roughing up randos is Elva's actual job but upon my arrival on the 12th floor of the U.S. Bank Building, Elva seemed eager to jam a needle in my arm. Understanding that this would cause me great pain, my boss pulled out his video camera as I'm certain he wanted to be able to watch me suffer outside of the designated 8 hrs we’re already obligated to spend together each day. As you can see from said video, it was a God damn blood bath.
The other day, as I was heading out of the office for my 40th cig break of the day, I ran into my boss. It should be noted that I'm a legal assistant so basically everyone is my boss. I am on the bottom of the totem pole evident by the constant verbal abuse and demands that are hurled my way.
My Boss: What are you doing?
Me: Attempting to smoke.
My Boss: You're gonna die. Come get a flu shot.
So I did. Cause the terror inflicted upon me by these men coupled by my inability to not wander off, always has me saying yes to scenarios that I should likely avoid. On any given day, I find myself meandering around aimlessly and next thing ya know I'm getting man-handled by a stranger. Enter Elva.
I'm not sure if roughing up randos is Elva's actual job but upon my arrival on the 12th floor of the U.S. Bank Building, Elva seemed eager to jam a needle in my arm. Understanding that this would cause me great pain, my boss pulled out his video camera as I'm certain he wanted to be able to watch me suffer outside of the designated 8 hrs we’re already obligated to spend together each day. As you can see from said video, it was a God damn blood bath.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Finding True Love
True love is hard to find. Every year, desperate single people spend thousands of dollars on dating sites, at the gym, and going to bars, all in an attempt to meet that perfect someone. I'm known for my impatience and what some people consider to be a defect, I consider to be a great skill. I have the uncanny ability to detect a man from miles away, who I believe will be the perfect one-night-stand. And while none of these episodes have ever resulted in marriage (dodged the bullet) or children (I'm on 70 forms of birth control), they have always been wildly successful where love is concerned.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Pats game in Boston when an aggressively attractive man leaned over and said, "I think we should kiss." He fit all of my criteria perfectly. Hot body, just dumb enough to immediately ask for a makeout session, young, attractive with the perfect degree of drunken swagger. Upon further review, I found out he was a minor-league pitcher. This fact cinched it for me and far be it from me to deny a burgeoning athlete a smooch, however, I was with a gaggle of married people and wasn't ready to be fully ex-communicated so I tried to act like a lady and responded, "How about I write my number on your arm and we bang later instead?" This worked wonderfully.
A few hours later this drunken savage showed up at my apartment. Sex happened, it was life-changing. Turns out inebriated sportsmen don't mince words. He had little to say but we agreed that we had a lot in common as we both liked to be naked and we both liked The Postal Service. It was meant to be. The next morning he flew back to Kansas City or Pittsburgh or wherever he was from. We sexted for a few months but in the end, our time together was brief. But, like a gentleman, he left me with something that would keep me remembering him for years.
After a few days, I realized I wasn't feeling so hot. I had a fever and my back hurt so badly that it was becoming impossible to sext the minor-league pitcher pictures of my breasts. I knew I had to do something so I waited until I was basically unable to walk and then I went to the doctor. (Such an idiot.)
Ultimately I was diagnosed with a kidney infection.
Me: Am I dying?
Dr: No, you have a kidney infection.
Me: How did I get it?
Dr: Have you been sexually active recently?
Me: Ya, it's been great. I had sex with a stranger that I met in a bar on a Sunday. Could that have done it?
Dr: *literally just throwing condoms at me*
Me: I gotta go.
Unfortunately there was a bit of a mix-up at said doctor's. It took a while for them to prescribe the right antibiotic and then they lost one of my urine samples leaving me with a 104 degree temperature for over a week. Finally, I was forced to go on short-term disability because I had missed so much work. And each night, as my friends stopped by to cover me with ice or feed me broth, I couldn't help but think that maybe the minor-league pitcher and I really had something. I never told him about my kidney infection but I'm sure he was concerned when the sexts slowed down. That's the fantastic thing about anonymous sex with strangers. You don't have to talk a lot. I had no explaining to do for my lack in communication. We never did see each other again. But I would gladly contract another crippling disease if it meant we could, once again, be together. I don't claim to know a lot about relationships but I'm pretty sure that's what true love is.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Pats game in Boston when an aggressively attractive man leaned over and said, "I think we should kiss." He fit all of my criteria perfectly. Hot body, just dumb enough to immediately ask for a makeout session, young, attractive with the perfect degree of drunken swagger. Upon further review, I found out he was a minor-league pitcher. This fact cinched it for me and far be it from me to deny a burgeoning athlete a smooch, however, I was with a gaggle of married people and wasn't ready to be fully ex-communicated so I tried to act like a lady and responded, "How about I write my number on your arm and we bang later instead?" This worked wonderfully.
A few hours later this drunken savage showed up at my apartment. Sex happened, it was life-changing. Turns out inebriated sportsmen don't mince words. He had little to say but we agreed that we had a lot in common as we both liked to be naked and we both liked The Postal Service. It was meant to be. The next morning he flew back to Kansas City or Pittsburgh or wherever he was from. We sexted for a few months but in the end, our time together was brief. But, like a gentleman, he left me with something that would keep me remembering him for years.
After a few days, I realized I wasn't feeling so hot. I had a fever and my back hurt so badly that it was becoming impossible to sext the minor-league pitcher pictures of my breasts. I knew I had to do something so I waited until I was basically unable to walk and then I went to the doctor. (Such an idiot.)
Ultimately I was diagnosed with a kidney infection.
Me: Am I dying?
Dr: No, you have a kidney infection.
Me: How did I get it?
Dr: Have you been sexually active recently?
Me: Ya, it's been great. I had sex with a stranger that I met in a bar on a Sunday. Could that have done it?
Dr: *literally just throwing condoms at me*
Me: I gotta go.
Unfortunately there was a bit of a mix-up at said doctor's. It took a while for them to prescribe the right antibiotic and then they lost one of my urine samples leaving me with a 104 degree temperature for over a week. Finally, I was forced to go on short-term disability because I had missed so much work. And each night, as my friends stopped by to cover me with ice or feed me broth, I couldn't help but think that maybe the minor-league pitcher and I really had something. I never told him about my kidney infection but I'm sure he was concerned when the sexts slowed down. That's the fantastic thing about anonymous sex with strangers. You don't have to talk a lot. I had no explaining to do for my lack in communication. We never did see each other again. But I would gladly contract another crippling disease if it meant we could, once again, be together. I don't claim to know a lot about relationships but I'm pretty sure that's what true love is.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A Conversation With Phil Collins
Musicians write songs for people; people they love, people they hate, and people they may never see again. They write down the words they couldn’t find in the moment, set those words to music and then offer them up for the world to hear. And unless you’re participating in an East Coast/West Coast rap battle, you rarely get a chance to respond.
I like to imagine that Phil Collins wrote his epic love ballad, Against All Odds, just for me. Mr. Collins, I have a few things to say…
Phil Collins: How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace?
Me: Without a trace? Take it easy pal, I said you could keep the couch.
PC: When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh.
Me: Excuse me?
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: Phil, you’re being dramatic. Tons of people “get” you.
PC: How can you just walk away from me, when all I can do is watch you leave?
Me: An excellent question. Why don’t you do me a solid and get the door.
PC: Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears.
Me: I’d say it was mostly the tears that I wasn’t really in to.
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: I feel like we just did this.
PC: So take a look at me now.
Me: Seriously?
PC: Cause there's just an empty space.
Me: Phil, you’re dead inside.
PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.
Me: And the couch! My grandma gave me that couch and I am giving it to you. You’re welcome.
PC: Take a look at me now.
Me: Good grief, Phil.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space.
Me: *blank staring*
PC: And you coming back to me is against all odds and that's what I've got to face.
Me: Listen Phil, it’s been great but I should really…
PC: I wish I could just make you turn around.
Me: Are we not done here?
PC: Turn around and see me cry.
Me: Again with the crying?
PC: There's so much I need to say to you.
Me: More? You have been babbling since I walked in the door.
PC: So many reasons why.
Me: I have reasons too. You’re short, you’re not interesting, you never wake up to take the dog out and sometimes you drool when you talk.
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: You’re doing it. It’s just a little bit of drool that seeps out of the side of your mouth. Super gross.
PC: So take a look at me now.
Me: I hate this.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space
Me: Ya know what? I’m leaving. This is crazy.
PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.
Me: Fine. I’ll leave the picture of us at Space Mountain.
PC: Take a look at me now.
Me: I literally wish I was blind.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space
Me: You’re right. I’m taking the couch. You don’t deserve it.
PC: But to wait for you, well that's all I can do and that's what I've got to face
Me: Bye Phil. You really blew it.
I like to imagine that Phil Collins wrote his epic love ballad, Against All Odds, just for me. Mr. Collins, I have a few things to say…
Phil Collins: How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace?
Me: Without a trace? Take it easy pal, I said you could keep the couch.
PC: When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh.
Me: Excuse me?
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: Phil, you’re being dramatic. Tons of people “get” you.
PC: How can you just walk away from me, when all I can do is watch you leave?
Me: An excellent question. Why don’t you do me a solid and get the door.
PC: Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears.
Me: I’d say it was mostly the tears that I wasn’t really in to.
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: I feel like we just did this.
PC: So take a look at me now.
Me: Seriously?
PC: Cause there's just an empty space.
Me: Phil, you’re dead inside.
PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.
Me: And the couch! My grandma gave me that couch and I am giving it to you. You’re welcome.
PC: Take a look at me now.
Me: Good grief, Phil.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space.
Me: *blank staring*
PC: And you coming back to me is against all odds and that's what I've got to face.
Me: Listen Phil, it’s been great but I should really…
PC: I wish I could just make you turn around.
Me: Are we not done here?
PC: Turn around and see me cry.
Me: Again with the crying?
PC: There's so much I need to say to you.
Me: More? You have been babbling since I walked in the door.
PC: So many reasons why.
Me: I have reasons too. You’re short, you’re not interesting, you never wake up to take the dog out and sometimes you drool when you talk.
PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.
Me: You’re doing it. It’s just a little bit of drool that seeps out of the side of your mouth. Super gross.
PC: So take a look at me now.
Me: I hate this.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space
Me: Ya know what? I’m leaving. This is crazy.
PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.
Me: Fine. I’ll leave the picture of us at Space Mountain.
PC: Take a look at me now.
Me: I literally wish I was blind.
PC: Cause there's just an empty space
Me: You’re right. I’m taking the couch. You don’t deserve it.
PC: But to wait for you, well that's all I can do and that's what I've got to face
Me: Bye Phil. You really blew it.
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