And "Baby" Makes Three...

So I had just broken up with my boyfriend and was excited that this guy from my neighborhood who I'd had my eye on asked me out. He had just broken up with his (crazy as a loon) girlfriend. Now, he had a really thick wanna-be-wise-guy Jersey accent, but his hot body, square jaw, thick jet-black hair and blue eyes more than made up for it. And boy, could he kiss. Hoo-weee! Anyway, we go to the boardwalk and are having a good time when his ex calls. And calls. And calls. And calls. She's screaming at him, "Are you out with a girl? We just broke up, were you cheating on me with her?!" Etc. In two seconds, he turned into a p****whipped, whiny little mouse. He even paid a stranger to say "Yo, Stevie, the table's ready," into the phone so she'd think he was out with friends. She must have called thirty times during our date, and the worst part is, he would not turn off his phone! He kept answering it, swearing he was not out with another woman! "Awwww, baby, I'm not out with a woman, I'm out with the guys..." BABY?! I could hear her screaming from 10 feet away! Anyway, then he tells me he's tight with these VIP's, who I happen to be tight with...and let me just say, these are people who HATE hangers-on...which is what he was, because my friends never heard of him. Anyway, it was such a weird situation after that, I told him I could not see him anymore until he resolved everything with his ex. Really, I didn't EVER want to see him again, so I moved shortly after that. Well, I just got a promotion so I don't have to travel for work anymore-I used to be gone three weeks a month-so now that I'm home a lot, guess what I found out? His mother lives three doors down. And he just moved in with her. So now I have to see him almost every day and hear "How's my baaaabydooollll?" and listen to him drone on about how's he's ready and looking to get married. Let's just say, I'm looking to move AGAIN. Perhaps out of state.

Oh, Thankyou for Coming...

Editors Note: This story contains adult themes concerning foul, disgusting behaviour, so don't read it...I mean it, do not read this story!

Hi,
We went out to dinner on Saturday night, and you called yesterday. I will NOT, under ANY circumstances, be calling you back, and I thought you might want to know why.
I had high hopes for you, you know. You were really cute, seemed articulate and reasonably intelligent, and worked at a decent job. But, man oh man, you SO BLEW IT.
Dinner was good, I have to admit. We chatted amiably and there weren't any of those long pauses in conversation where you feel all awkward and desperately scan the room looking for something to comment on. In fact, dinner was pleasant enough that I invited you up to my apartment for a drink. That's when things started to go wrong.
First off, even though I did ask you to come up, I'm not a slutty gal. I suspect that you thought just because I asked you to come in my house you were going to get LUCKY LUCKY LUCKY, but, let me tell you, asking me about whether or not I like "toys" on a first date and about my feelings regarding oral sex - that's a big NO for me. It's not that I don't like those things, I do, but that's just WAY too personal for a first date. In the same way that I wouldn't tell you about, for example, the worst thing that ever happened to me, or how I felt when my grandma died, or about my parent's divorce, or about how many hours I was on the toilet when I got food poisoning - because you see, those are personal things and I DON'T REALLY KNOW YOU, and therefore, they are INAPPROPRIATE, I'm not going to chat with you about my sexual habits. Strike one
Okay - so I thought that that was weird and rude, but you leaned in to kiss me and, what the hell, I kissed you anyways. Here's where things went REALLY WRONG! Cumming in your pants because of a 5 minute kiss is NOT IMPRESSIVE and does not bode well for the bedroom and I'm thinking at this point, maybe this is why he's so concerned with toy habits. While I would like to think that maybe I'm some kind of INSANELY good kisser and that because of my skill you were overcome, so to speak, I don't think that's the case. At this point I just wanted you to leave. That was strike 2.
So, then you went to the bathroom to "clean up" and then came back out and gave me this pathetic excuse about how you just remembered you had to return a video that you had left at a friend's house and needed to leave. By the way, that was a completely transparent lie, but I just wanted you to GO AWAY so I pretended to believe it. I suspect you were embarrassed, which you had every right to be, but come on, how stupid do you think I am? I can't believe you bought it when I nodded my head and emphatically agreed with you that late fees were indeed horrible and that, yes, it was an urgent manner that you retrieve your video and get it back RIGHT AWAY. Strike 3 for baldfaced, idiotic lying, you sorry ass.
So, you finally leave, and I'm thinking THANK GOD THAT'S OVER, and GODDAM IDIOT, and I put my sweats on and go to the bathrooom to wash my face and brush my teeth and I soap my face off and rinse it off and grab the handtowel I keep by the sink and I look down squinting because there's water in my eyes and think, "what's that?" and then get a whiff of it and realize OH MY GOD YOU BASTARD you cleaned off your sorry dick on my face towel. Were you not taught any manners? There was plenty of toilet paper, which I would have thought to be the logical choice, but you used my FACE TOWEL. I gagged and threw the towel out of the bathrooom. This is strike 4, and by the way, I had to throw the towel away and while you owe me a nice, thick purple face towel that hasn't been soiled, I will never claim this because that would require seeing you again, and I DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES want to do so.
So anyways, that pretty much sums up why I'm not returning your call, and why I don't like you. You suck.

"Why Do Birds, Suddenly Appear...La,La,La"

Remember that old Carpenters song they play at weddings? It starts "Why do
birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near..." Well I can't listen to that
song without being reminded of a morning stroll I took with a lovely young
Eastern European lass a few years back. I had gotten up early to work out, and (for once) I was really confident. I felt buff, cool, in charge. She smiled, a dark-eyed beauty...we'd only just met but, who knows, could this be love? I took her hand in mine and we started to stroll toward the park when...a pigeon took a MASSIVE POOP ON MY HEAD! As I felt the trickle working its way down my forehead I knew the spell had been broken. I would never fully recover my "coolness" and the relationship went straight downhill after that...and now, writing this, I've got that horrible song stuck in my head again..."Why Do birds, suddenly appear everytime you are near..."

A Fatal Misstep

The date herself was not bad. Conditions beyond my control and outside my sphere of influence conspired to destroy any hope of enjoyment for myself and my date. It had been a year, over a year since an important relationship fell through, and I was just beginning to come out of hiding and start looking at women again. I was trying online dating, which many assume immediately lends itself to certain doom, but it was an idea I could grasp at the time, and something I had enjoyed trying previously. After a few weeks of tweaking my online profile, I was in contact with a lovely lady and emailed for about a week. Our first date rolled up and she seemed very nice, attractive, and creative. Carless as I was, she picked me up and we proceeded to the Laurelhurst Theater to see Bubba Ho Tep. Everything seemed great, I was finally "out there" again, my date and I definitely clicked, and we were about to watch an elderly Elvis beat the snot out of a cowboy/mummy. She parks the car. It was dark. I open the door. I swing a leg out onto the grassy knoll. My favorite boots, steel-toed vegan waffle-stompers, slide across a viscously solid heap of canine dung, detritus, animal waste, DOG SHIT. "Shit," I says. I tell her and she laughs good-naturedly, assuring me it doesn't matter and telling me it's more funny than anything. I do what I can by scrubbing my deep soles on mounds of grass, eyes keenly scanning the darkness for more treacherous mounds, but to no avail. I spend the 15 minutes before the movie desperately trying to clean out the waffle with my key in the stall of the bathroom, rinsing shit into the sink when no one else is in the john. The entire movie, every shift of my feet brings fresh clouds of shitstink wafting up from below, and I detect my nearby fellow movie patrons lifting their noses to the breeze at the detection of some foul presence in the air. I sweated like Rodney Dangerfield the duration of that film, certain that I would be thrown out and beaten by a cabal of angry moviegoers. How can one really appreciate Bruce Campbell when the smell of dogshit hangs static in a warm movie auditorium? She was cool. We went out a few more times, but that was it. Despite my love for wild and domesticated beasts, Portland dogs and their owners, whether responsible or not, were viciously and unapologetically cursed under my breath for many months to come. That is all.

"No problem. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
-Samuel Beckett