What’s your name, cause I’m impressed
Can you treat me good, I won’t settle for less
You a hot boy, a rock boy
A fun toy, tote a glock boy
Where you live, is it by yourself
Can I move wit’ you, do you need some help
I cook boy, I’ll give you more
I’mma fly girl, and I like those
– Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliot feat. Lil’ Mo
The other week, I harped on the boys.
And when I say I “harped” – really, I just told the truth.
Boys are dumb.
They are dumb, and cheap, and dirty, and not very clever. They send random people pictures of their genitalia and give out fake Chick-fil-a coupons. They never own their shit, they’re whiny, and they often times jump to conclusions over silly things. (Oh c’mon! It was one guy! One guy got “violently” ill at my home one time. So what? Shit happens. Literally. Especially after Chinese food. So, despite what you “may” or “may not” hear… I absolutely did. not. poison that fucker.) They can’t remember annnnything. And they smell too.
But don’t let my perfectly filtered selfies fool ya…
I’m no cupcake walk either.
Let’s get real, this bitch is just one hook and eye clasp away from turning someone’s first date into a striptease.
I’m probably “that girl” some of these guys go back and tell their douche bag buddies about. Why? Because I’m like a snake in the grass. A “full-on Monet,” as Cher Horowitz would say. I am a – well, just hear me out…
My profile is on point. I am straightforward and concise: “Southern Belle goes SoCal. I love big hair and basset hounds. 5’8″ with a closet full of heels.” My pictures look professionally done (… or so I’ve been told 😉 #selfiegameonfleek). When a boy messages me I am coy, and sweet, and funny, and only use curse words if they use them first. I don’t over emoji, or message, or share.
I look awesome on paper.
But I can’t keep all this chaos under control when we meet face-to-face.
I’m a whirlwind – a “tornado in a teacup,” they say. I fuck shit up, and start shenanigans, and sing karaoke, and drink vodka on ice. I walk that real thin line between looking super put together and having my skirt tucked into my Rainbow Brite panties. You can’t win with me. I am a goddamn wreck. But a funny kind of wreck. Kinda like in Pitch Perfect, when Fat Amy gets hit with the burrito and she yells out, “I’ve been shot!” Everyone thinks it’s hilarious. It sucks for her – all that sauce and shit on her face – but that scene is a fucking riot. That’s me. Except I’m mostly the one pelting burritos at myself.
- I met a guy for breakfast once with a huge clothing sensor on my shirt. That was his first impression of me – a cute blonde in a vintage Barbie tee flanked with a department store censor. He probably thought I was a kleptomaniac; however, it didn’t deter him from asking me out again. While getting ready for our second date – no bra to be found. Great. “Fuck it,” I thought, “This is California. Do they even sell bras here?” So, I went with it. He ended up being the dumbass with ADD who snorted cocaine a “couple” of times. Yeah. My issues = the least of our problems.
- On my first date with another boy, J, I wore a jumpsuit. I looked hot. Oh yeaaaassss. Make-up – perfection. No hair was out of place. Not a trace of camel toe in sight. J-Lo had better watch. tha. hell out. Granted, I did have a head cold something fierce and at one point had to stop at the 7-11 for some cough drops. But other than that – this bitch – on point. Well, okay, so there was this one other thing. Peeing. Luckily, it was a group thing, because I had to have someone zip me back into the mother fucker every time I went to the bathroom.
- On another first date, I wore a backless shirt (… notice a trend here). I know, I know, I do this to myself. Anyhow, it only connected with a hook and eye clasp halfway down my spine. We were getting along great – me and the john – so our plan was to move to a different bar. But as I stood to put on my jacket, something felt… off. No, seriously. My shirt felt like it was coming off. I stopped him mid-sentence, “Umm. Sorry. But, uhhhh. So, I know this sounds kinda weird… but I think my shirt just came unhooked. Can you give me a minute?” I went to the bathroom to scope out the situation. As I walked into the restroom, a girl with turquoise hair walked out of a stall, “Uhh. Hi. Can you do me a huge favor? Could you check to see if my shirt is just unhooked or did it break altogether?” Strange Girl rummaged around my naked top-half for a bit and said, “Ohhh. Yeah. It’s broken. Hold on. Let me go ask my manager if we have a safety pin.” I couldn’t believe my luck, “You work here?!” She smiled, “Yes.” I waited patiently in the bar bathroom for my Strange Girl savior to return with a safety pin. When she arrived, there was a rubber band. It wasn’t cute, but it wasn’t naked either…
Okay, I’ll admit. Those examples are pretty PG. Then again, I do always try to be on my best behavior when I meet these fellas. I follow all of the first date rules: no negativity, no exes, no phone, and lots of eye-contact. I am very self aware. I know I have a large personality with many quirks. I also know that I can talk entirely too much. And spilling your guts too soon to someone who may not be ready to catch them isn’t gonna get you to a second date. So, I’ve taught myself to reign it in.
Oh, and I most certainly do not mention this blog.
So, maybe I’m not such a hot mess after all.
At least not until you really get to know me…
What I won’t tell you on our first date:
- I sleep with a stuffed animal. And when I finally do spill the beans, I will probably try to feed you some line of bullshit about “how he helps with my spinal alignment during the night.”
- I’m a very picky eater. No fruits. No veggies. And absolutely zero mayonnaise. It’s mostly a texture thing. I also hate when people give me a hard time about it. How’s about just letting me eat like a 4-year-old in peace, thanks.
- I cuss a lot. Not because I’m trying to be cool or because I have a small vocabulary. I’m just very passionate. #zerofucksgiven
- Side Story: I distinctly remember being seven or eight years old, laying in bed with my Nana, and saying, “Nana, I can’t stop thinking of bad words.” She told me to think happy thoughts. But here we are – 20 years later – and I still can’t stop thinkin’ about ’em.
- Side Story to the Side Story: Until I was 26-years-old, I slept with my Nana any time I visited her house.
- My drink choice isn’t for show either. In high school, my boyfriend at the time was advised by a peer, “If you plan on getting her drunk and taking advantage of her – you’ll break the bank first.”
- With that being said, Drunk Me has started this new really annoying thing where I basically talk in slow motion. I’m totally conscious of the fact it’s happening, but for whatever reason, can’t put a stop to the madness. I would like to apologize in advance.
- Don’t like abbreviations.
- Sometimes I speak in hashtags just be be funny/ironic/relevant/fucking annoying.
- Fear not, I’m actually really fucking intelligent.
- And if you get the impression I’m just a silly ditz… it’s probably because I want you to believe I am… because you’re more useful to me that way.
- I only wash my hair maybe once a week? (… and even that’s a huge emotional ordeal.)
- I might breathe heavily climbing up those hills on that hike you seem bound and fucking determined to take me on. But I promise, I won’t die. And I won’t complain either. Just save your conversational bullshit for the walk down and take my picture when we get to the top.
- My dog is off limits. His whining, his lack of obedience, his smell, his sexual orientation, his balls – back. tha. frack. off.
- I really only shaved because we’re going out.
- My aunt has my GPS coordinates, your name, and any information you have provided to me about yourself thus far safely saved in her iPhone. In other words, try something, mutha fucka.
- I have a lot of irrational fears. Like, icebergs, ships, lots of ants grouped together… you know, things like that.
- I’m a recovering bra-stuffer.
- Subconsciously, I’ve spent the entire night thinking, “My little brother could probably kick your ass.”
- I take six pills every night before bed. One for chronic headaches, an anti-depressant, birth control, something for my acid reflux, a multi-vitamin, and fish oil. Cheers!
- You’re probably gonna end up on this website at some point or another. Annnnnnd you’re probably not gonna like it. Unless, of course, you’re my soul mate. Then I’ll have nothing to write about but rainbows and sunshine, right?!
- ISO: Chauffeur. Can you drive me around, please?
- On a scale of 1-10, I’d rate my modesty at a .43. No butt stuff, thanks.
- I will not call or text you. Actually, the only time you will hear from me is if you contact me first. This means you set the speed of our relationship. It’s not a game. I’m just old fashioned. A man should pursue the woman. A man should call the woman, ask the woman out, pay for the first few dates, open doors, tell me I’m pretty, etc. Also, I am just not the type that needs to be in constant contact with someone. You do you. But don’t come at me when we talk every day for weeks, and then suddenly, radio silence for a month… (cough, cough)
- I might look like a princess – with all these sparkles, all this make-up, those heels, and that hair – but there isn’t much I won’t try. I didn’t move all the way out to California to go to dinner and a movie. We can be lame, like, when we’re dead, k?
- If you start showing any signs of commitment – I will sabotage us. Minimal communication, blowing you off, seeing other dudes… you know, normal asshole bullshit. That’s me. Look, you better lock this shit down on the low-low, homie, ’cause I’ll fuck your world up.
- However, weather my storm and you will have never had a more loyal partner.
- Brace yo’self. I am a goddamn dancing machine.