Did you have to, did you have to let it linger?

Have you ever run out to, say, the grocery store? And in your car on the way there, maybe you farted? And when you got back into your car with your pepperoni DiGiorno and six-pack of PBR, it still smelled like fart?

Oh.

Yeah, me neither.

Rough... or, not at all

I just got the most hiiiilarious text message I think I've ever received. It's from a dude I thought I had managed to sufficiently blow off several weeks ago. This is what it said:

hey wanna meet up for some rough sex tonight?

Allow me to explain, in list form, why this message invokes such hilarity.

1.) I haven't spoken to this guy in weeks, possibly months.
2.) We never had sex of any kind, not even soft-focus lens, gentle sex. Heck, we didn't even dry hump.
3.) He is a tiny, tiny person and weighs about the same as me, which is not a great deal. I don't think this guy is capable of rough thumb-wrestling, let alone rough sex.

I have NO IDEA how to respond to this, but I do know that whenever I need a laugh during these next few days, I will go back and read that text. Oh man, I am smiling to myself like a total asshole right now.

PANTONE 292

So, my best ho and I just moved into this big house with a pool in the suburbs -- RENT FREE. If you're keeping score, that means -1 (suburbs) +1 (pool) +1 (best ho) and +1 (no rent), putting us a solid 2 points into the positive. YESSSssss!

BUT, in a cruel twist of fate, that dumb ho up and got herself a man, within point two seconds of us moving into our suburban paradise, what was meant to be the bachelorette pad of our dreams. So now while they are off skipping hand-in-hand through poppy fields, I have moved away from all my other friends and am left to sulk and drink entire bottles of 2-buck Chuck by myself, in the barren, social wasteland of the San Gabriel Valley.

Now I totally understand how your dog feels when you leave him home alone for too long. Because I'm kind of tempted to shit in my roommate's shoes and shred all the toilet paper in her bathroom. Figuratively, I mean.

R.I.P., Dating Karma (1994 - 2005)

Yeah, so today I pretty much suicide-bombed my dating karma.

I knew I was in trouble last week when this dude asked me out, and instead of saying to him, "I would rather have a yeast infection than look at your scraggly chin pubes or listen to your nails-on-a-chalkboard Midwestern accent for more than 3 consecutive minutes," our conversation went more like this:

Him: Hey, so you want to get together for dinner?
Me: Ah, yeah, well, I just don't know when that would be... things are real busy right now...
Him: I'm free Friday!
Me: Ah, yeah, I, uh, have plans...
Him: What about Saturday! Sunday! Monday! Tuesday!
Me: Well, I guess, Tuesday... but I work 'til 9, so...
Him: Ok, so a little after 9!
Me: Uh
Him: Should we go out? I can cook... I'll make you dinner. Great, I'm so excited!
Me: Ah. Yeah.

Biggest. Wuss. Ever. Not only was I unable to tell him I wasn't interested, I agreed to have dinner AT HIS HOUSE, possibly the most romantic of all date arrangements. Stupid. Stupidstupid.

Despite his hideous goatee and even hideous-er Midwestern accent, this guy is really, truly nice, and I would have felt like too much of a jerk telling him I wasn't interested. But I reeeeheeeheeeeally didn't want to go out with him. So I called him up today and told him, boy, this was really awkward, but, ah, well, I've started seeing someone, and I just wouldn't feel right about having dinner with his goatee. I mean, him. An out and out lie.

Explosions! smoke... karma... in flames...

No one will ask me out ever again. Cobwebs will grow between my legs. All of my friends will have closetfuls of the scarves and socks and blankets and adult-sized footed sleepers that I will have knitted for them on my lonely Saturday nights.