The Poet 05/20/2010
I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret. I’m kind of a smart ass. I know that may be hard to believe but it’s true. Don’t worry, I’ve come to terms with it and no amount of therapy or vodka is going to change that. That being said, I’m also not what you would consider a “romantic”. Slow songs during Karaoke make me uncomfortable and American Idol makes me laugh. I find appreciating art difficult and I certainly have a hard time getting into poetry. This probably makes me sound like one of them there uncultured folks but I’d literally rather spend my time organizing my sock drawer or removing my wisdom teeth with a plastic spork and a straw. If you feel like hanging with me and a bottle of tequila while skinny dipping in the middle of the night, cool. That’s more my style. If you want to discuss the importance of SNL’s Tina Tina Chanuseand why you shouldn’t have a boring doorbell, that’s even better. Yeah, I’m classy like that. So, when I received this email from The Poet, I rolled my eyes so hard they almost got stuck in the back of my head. Left my heart looking in the mirror, I knew I was losing it all.A glass of vodka, without the cranberry, yes it was a bad week.Look at the guy sleeping on the ground, what a joke.Wait thats me, but I showered like a rich guy; with water that sprouted from the wall.The clouds cover the sun again, and its hard to see but this fool isstill wearing sunglasses at 8 o clock at night.I love it when they laugh and I make everyone's night, but I belongto the night, to the streets of the night.Where are you headed ? well I just ask cause I stay in Santa Monicaright next to the nice hotel, I didn't live or work there but kinda liked it when the lady asked me if I could park her car. At least I think this was an attempt at poetry. And if it isn’t, I’m REALLY confused. He had me at vodka. He lost me at the comma following. I’m still of the belief that if it doesn’t rhyme it isn’t really a poem. I’m more of a “Roses are red, Violets are blue. I can’t write poetry and neither can you” kind of gal. In his defense, he did catch my attention. However, probably not for the reasons he was hoping for. His profile listed his profession as “Writer”. He’s 33 years old, looking for “Friends”, has never been married (surprise, surprise), has no kids and only has one picture posted. With sunglasses on. Hemingway’s Profile: Love to play poker and shoot pool. Like a woman that can sing so I can relax and enjoy your voice. I am a writer and when I become big I wanna help animals and people who live in poverty. I would like to get to know someone so I can take them to vegas. First Date: coffee. coffee. coffee. If that’s not one of the lamest attempts at trying to woo a woman than I don’t know what is. This guy must be a real hit at dinner parties. I suppose I should give him kudos for wanting to save the earth and all its unfortunate inhabitants but there’s just something about him that makes me want to vomit. Considering that he states he’s a writer, I also would have assumed he’d have given a little more thought to his profile. A dating profile is a perfect opportunity to showcase one’s talents (especially if you are indeed a writer) and is the closest thing to a first impression one can make on the internet. He clearly doesn’t believe in spell check and considering he didn’t take this opportunity to stand out from the rest, I find him to be somewhat of a fraud. If this guy is actually making a living off of his writing, then I give up. I guess I just can’t compete with such raw and uninhibited talent. I certainly shouldn’t write him back for fear that I won’t be able to live up to his expectations and amazing ability to put the written word onto paper. To make the long story short, I won’t be going out with Robert Frost anytime soon. The Fire Has Gone Out With The Fireman 05/12/2010
Here’s how I know that The Fireman and I will not be sustaining a long and fulfilling relationship: Five minutes after arriving, he began telling me of his “Latina” phase. Apparently, he is now into women of the Hispanic persuasion. Hi, have we met? I’m a 19 foot tall blonde. Thanks, Jackass. He only brought one bottle of wine. He spent 12 minutes discussing his previous night’s date where he spent $50 at the movies and didn’t get laid yet decided that he couldn’t forgo $10 to get another bottle of vino for me…even knowing that I WOULD be putting out. I started playing on Twitter while he was talking. He seemed slightly annoyed when I managed to rip his belt in half while trying to get it off of him. (I don’t mess around when I’m trying to get into a man’s pants. If I feel it’s taking too long, clothes will be torn and belts broken. That’s just the risk you take) Since he wouldn’t let me sleep at 1:30 in the morning, I made him go out to buy me more wine because I realized he was only bearable if I’m intoxicated. He tried to order a hamburger with a side of tits at the Jack In The Box drive through on our way back from getting alcohol. He bit me. I found myself rolling my eyes several times when he wasn’t looking and even contemplated if it was too late to go ask the neighbors if I could borrow their duck tape. At midnight. He tried to stick his dick into my wine glass to get my attention since I found an old episode of Criminal Minds more entertaining than his thoughts of self realization and his need to acquiesce to the demands of family and friends to settle down and find a “good” woman. All in all, this evening I just described can best be summed up as an “I shaved for this?” kind of evening. The conversation was dull and the sex mediocre at best. I didn’t even bother with the morning sex. I got dressed and sat on the couch to wait for him to wake up. Walking him to his car was the highlight of the whole experience. I’d once been told that if I were a bitch, I’d be nicer. I’m inclined to agree. Meeting One was a breath of fresh air. He was funny, engaging, TALL. By all accounts, perfect. One had his own house, his own business and a boat. He was divorced, had a son and didn’t spend countless hours bitching about the Ex. All signs pointed to yes. For once, I thought Match.com might have gotten it right. Or at least close. Our first conversation was filled with laughter and flirting without him feeling the need to ask me for more pictures or my bra size. In a “what a small world” moment, it was soon realized that I had actually met his bartender brother two years earlier in Hollywood. I have a fairly uncommon French last name and as it turned out me and One had last names so similar we were one letter away from being kissing cousins. Giving his brother my card to start a tab is how he and I ended up having the exact same conversation years before. Anyway, moving along… A couple of dinner dates and a few Coronas later and it was time to test out the mattress. One had an amazing body and I was very much looking forward to exploring it. He knew how to kiss, he knew where to touch. This was going to be fun. With my tongue, I traced the lines of his chest. Nibbling on his muscular pecks and lightly biting at his solid abs on my way down. I thought to myself “Wow, this guy has everything!” But I may have spoken too soon. Making my way down to show this guy one of my many talents, I thought I noticed something missing. Lights out, I thought the shadows of the room were playing tricks on me. I moved One Jr. slightly to the right then slightly to the left. Could it be? Was I seeing this right? I thought they usually came in pairs? |