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Spare me the lecture, it's been a hellish month.

I drive way too fast.

This is not new or exciting, and the fact that I don't have more speeding tickets is some sort of freak miracle that I choose not to question for fear that it'll stop.

I was driving to Indiana to spend the night with a guy I dated awhile back (It really isn't as bad as it sounds), and I was plugging along rural Indiana rocking out to Puscifer. I noticed a little sports car get right up behind me on my ass. So I switched lanes.

Little Sports Car switched right behind me.

This makes me wonder, but if it was a cop he would've pulled me over by now, seeing as I was going a good 29 miles over the speed limit.

I slowed way, way down, and he slowed way way down too.

Now, any single female reading this would have had the exact same reaction I did, which was "What the fuck?" and a little pang of freakedoutness.

This guy needed to get off my ass, and now.

I quick got into the left lane and accelerated and quick got back into the right lane in front of a truck.

Little sports car followed me.

At this point, it became obvious that I was in the middle of nowhere and some obvious psychopath was following me. So I flipped on my dome light to find my cell phone.

And thats when I saw the cherries and blueberries.

When Captain Dipshit of the Boone County PD (Not making that up, either), finally got to my window, he explained why he pulled me over.

"Miss, you were speeding, and then you slowed down, and then you sped up, and you were weaving. The dome light came on, so I assumed you were under the influence".

So I did what anyone would expect someone like me to do in that situation.

I looked the man with the nightstick, handcuffs, and the gun straight in the face and said, "I was trying to get you to stop following me".

After I convinced him not to make me step out of the car, he admitted that following for 15 miles without pulling me over might have been the reason for my 'erratic driving'.

He let me off with two warnings.

Which I'm keeping as proof that there is a place called Boone County Indiana.

Next Post: Why Honesty Is NOT The Best Policy When You're Pulled Over For Speeding

I know I haven't updated in awhile. I've been sick, and honestly, sick and tired of finding my writing all over the internet with other people's names on it.

It's the most disheartening feeling in the universe and I've considered more than once abandoning this thing and finding another medium where my work won't be vomited all over the internet with 45 different people's fucking names all over them.

Don't believe me?

Go to facebook, or myspace, and do a quick search for "50 mistakes women make when having sex" or even "50 mistakes women make" and come back here and tell me exactly how many people credit me for it.

And tell me that you wouldn't be absolutely livid that some stupid cunt on the internet would steal your words because they were too stupid/lazy/unoriginal to make up their own. The problem is, for every person that does that, I potentially lose someone coming here, which drives down the traffic and makes it a lot harder in theory for me to get the book I'm working on published, which then takes money out of my checking account which we all know is a really nice goddamn way to piss me straight the fuck off.

I will say, when I call them on it or ask, most people are really good about putting a link up and giving me credit where credit is due. However, I just had 3 people in a row tell me to fuck myself. Fuck myself? Oh no, fuck you. In the ass. With the big fat copyright stick that I will soon beat you with.

So go ahead, go to facebook, myspace, or anywhere else on the internet with those idiots claiming that they wrote it, and tell them Clare sent you.

I hope they choke to death on their own vomit.

I know that one of my last posts was slightly emo.

Then I realized, my emo is not even the tip of the iceberg.

Here is my proof.

I'm back!

The fit of emo is over. Spare me the lecture. It's a part of the 'moving on' process. Some people get shitty drunk and sleep around, I write blog posts.
Well, I get shitty drunk and sleep around too but I'm actively trying to deal with my emotions in a more healthy, adult manner.

As it were, I decided I do need to write more. Perhaps, in the form of a book.
And it's looking more and more like it could happen.

The problem being...

I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. I have writers block the size of the taj mahal.
Which is not a great start, if you ask me.

As soon as I can afford a new desk, so I have some space solely for writing, I fully plan on cranking out a lot of work. (My last desk didn't survive the move, which would be unfortunate had it not been a hunk of shit). It's hard to be a creative genius (or a creative anything) when your work space is also your dining room table, and because its a gorgeous wood you refuse to set up your 2 computers and printer on it. My work spaces eventually look like a tornado consisting of diet coke cans, post it notes and take out containers hit it, and I'd rather not defile my favorite peice of furniture in that manner.


That and currently I am right next to my front door. Meaning I can hear every time my neighbors slam their door. Which is roughly every 30 seconds. They're driving me batshit crazy.
Note to readers: If your apartment number happens to be 214, pick one. IN OR FUCKING OUT.

I'm supposed to be tossing out ideas for a title of a book, and I've got nothing. Any suggestions?

I am a firm believer that everyone has that one relationship.
The one person that you fell head over heels insanely in love with.
The one that you still miss the way that they smell. The way they look in the morning.
You know, the one who fucked you up irreparably for the rest of your life.

The one that used to be your best friend but ruined it when they ripped the last actual feeling you ever had out. No matter how hard you try you can't seem to get that back.

I've been trying to maintain a friendship with mine. And I'm starting to see now what everyone else has been telling me all along. It's impossible to stay friends with the person who broke your heart. Because eventually they call you all fucked up about someone else, and you can't help but remember when that was you they gave a shit about. And somehow, it becomes impossible to figure out why you're the one they go back to consistently.

Even worse, the day you realize you're on the back burner is usually the day the person decides to tell you they love you again. Nothing says love like giving you just enough rope to hang yourself with.

The worst part is, it's not that you don't get it. You understand that it's just a game. They know what they're doing. You cycle between wanting them to scratch your head and snuggle you to sleep and wanting to rip the head off of their adored stuffed bear with the bowtie from childhood and stuff it in their mailbox.

Your friends are right, you do deserve better. But for whatever reason you can't find someone that makes you feel the way they did. And for that split second when they tell you they love you, just for a second, you're the only person in the entire world.

Some people drown it in drugs. Others drink. Some of us sit up at one in the morning and write emo posts on our blogs and wonder what we did to deserve being an afterthought. We sit up and write word after word after fucking word and hope that the answer pops out at us, when we really know it all along.

How do you break off a friendship you worked so hard for? You know that's the right answer, but somehow you just can't. Because whether you admit it or not, the rare times you hear from them, you still get that little flutter. You get a little bit of satisfaction when they get a little bit jealous.

Write about it. Write write write write write people can relate to it. Then the realization.
I can't write without him around.

I keep telling myself to break it off. For real. For good.
Rip the stitches. Grow a set. Whatever you want to call it.

And every time, without fail, he will tell me something that reminds me why I kept him around in the first place.

So it looks like I'm stuck writing emo blog posts, and wishing he thought of me once or twice. And wishing he wouldn't tell me he loves me anymore.

Wow. This blog actually has over 333 posts on it.

Which means that I definately don't update enough. But whatever. I'm tired.

Family stuff is a little bit crazy right now, and that's never a good time for anyone. It's been awhile since I was afraid to look at my bank account...and it looks like it's going to be one of those months. Things have been going pretty well, too. My traffic is through the roof, my new job is going well, but making ends meet is hard.

And my neighbors aren't helping.

It's not that they're rude. They aren't. They're actually quite nice. Very friendly people, with a 5 year old kid.

None of the running around bothers me, really. Kids are kids, they live above me, it's apartment life. Shit, even them getting busy in the middle of the night doesn't bug me. Yes, they are bigger people, and it's quite loud, but everyone needs some every now and then and who am I to judge? It's not like it's marathon sex.

So why am I tired?

Because they are above me, and their sweet darling little kid will play in the grass outside the apartment, that's fine.

He really is a cute little guy.

Who, whenever I am trying to sleep (Which is not often anymore) will decide that he doesn't want to walk up to the 3rd floor to talk to his parents, and will instead screech at the top of his little lungs. They will then open the balcony door and yell down at him.

For extended conversations.

In Spanish.

It is driving me batshit crazy. Seriously. Nothing is that important, and make that little fucker walk up to the apartment, he needs the exercise.

Once, I even got ballsy enough to ask him to not yell. He said, and I quote "No".

Never in my life have I been so tempted to throw something at a five year old.

There is nothing I can do to shut the little fucker up.

I suppose sleep is overrated anyway.

Clare: 0 Little Mexican 5 Year Old:1

I don't have much to say right now.

Ive gotten alot of emails asking where Ive been because Ive been absent off of Netscape as well. My grandma that I'm named after passed away on Friday and I'm a little far from alright.
She's been in a nursing home for awhile now, and it was a blessing I suppose because she wasn't doing well. She decided to stop eating. It was her time to go and she did it her way.

Unfortunately that doesn't make it easier. And I kind of don't know what I'm supposed to do right now. I have this way of freaking out after the fact and it looks like this time is no different.

She was an awesome lady.

And I miss her.

I am head over heels madly in love.

From the moment we met there was this connection....

I love her so much it's sick.

Yep. I'm in love with an ornery 7 pound dog.
But believe me, she's ferocious. Especially when she tries to stick her tongue up your nose.


This is my mom's new dog Zoe. She was supposed to be mine, but it looks like I have to share custody. Bah.

I turn 25 on Sunday.

Now that I am in my 20's, 25 doesn't seem so bad.

However, when I was younger, 25 was OLD. Like, saggy boobs and Geritol style old. I'm that crazy person who takes stock of things on my birthday, which is by far the most depressing thing in the world.

Here's how things panned out.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Living in an awesome apartment in the city.
Where I'm At Now: I live in a craptacular apartment just outside the city, where the crazy ass landlord wants another $1000 deposit to let me renew my lease. Given it's proximity to the city, I'm marking this as a win, even if it is a piece of shit apartment.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Ruling my own country on a far away island full of natives who worshipped me.
Where I'm At Now: I'm marginally famous on the Internet. By that I mean, I wrote something that everyone and their brother plagiarizes. I need to work on this.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Working in my own office downtown.
Where I'm At Now: SCORE. Fucking score. We are moving downtown sometime in the winter.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Rich driving a Mercedes.
Where I'm At Now: Poor driving a Malibu. Well, working on the poor thing. Apparently it's a step by step process. I'm up to my butt cheeks in debt but I'm sure it'll get better.

Where I Thought I'd Be: In a long term relationship with the love of my life.
Where I'm At Now: Still bitter that I wasted my time with that jackass and having occasional deluded fantasies about attacking his car with a pick axe.

Well....2 out of 5 isn't bad?

I have faith that by some miracle on August 12th I will somehow be debt free and showered with flowers, cash, sparkly jewelry, new cars and affection from male models.

(And a quick early happy birthday to my twin sister, and my cousin Matthew who share my birthday. And a quick fuck you for taking my special day.)

There's nothing quite like waking up to a call from my friend D.
I love her to bits, but she really has quite the knack for drama. More than anyone I've ever met.

This morning was one of those mornings.

She called me in between sobs telling me our friend Johannah was hit by a train. I'm a logical person, and knowing D, I chose this particular time to assume that she's exaggerating. Hit by a train? Come on. That doesn't actually happen to anyone.

As usual, I was wrong.

My friend got hit by a train. A fucking train. How the hell does that happen? Shes a tiny little thing, she can't weigh over 100 pounds, shouldn't she just fly away or something?!


I'm not sure what I'm supposed to really be thinking or doing right now. I'm just sort of staring at my computer screen feeling a strange combination of "What the fuck" and "Oh my god".

If something good doesn't happen I swear to Jesus I'm going to fly into a violent rage and kick someone's ass.

Anyhooter, I posted over at Intelligent Humor.

Go take a look at it so the ass I kick isn't yours. It should be up soon.

Apparently, Stephen Colbert mentioned Netscape on the Colbert Report the other day. It was a real brief blurb, but I'm super excited for one really simple reason.

It means that Stephen Colbert and I have been on the same website.

Potentially at the same time.


Now, bear with me. This is important.

This means we could potentially vote, or comment on the same story.
At some point, Stephen Colbert is going to check who commented on his comments, and he's going to see me. My smiling face. And my BRILLIANT prose is going to win him over. He will fall head over heels for me after he sees what amazing insights I have.

Sadly, it won't work out when I develop a deep love for his coworker Jon, and we eventually run away to Barbados and I spend my time writing for an obscene amount of money while laying on the beach in a bikini I miraculously became thin enough to wear.

Seriously.

Best. News. Evar.

Having been so productive today at work I felt like sharing one of my new favorite reads with you guys.

Enjoy.

I still have both my nuts.

Im the happiest girl ever! The Man of My Dreams seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth for awhile. No emails. No calls. No comments. I was convinced he had left me for a younger, cuter blogger. You know, someone more famous, and less controversial. I was going to quit writing to force him to come back again, but it turns out that he never left.

In other words: I have no excuse not to write.

I spend a lot of time traveling back and forth from home, my parents house, and work. Between keeping up on my writing and my "real" job, I don't have a lot of time for sleep.
Consequently, I spend a lot of time in Starbucks.

The one thing I hate about Starbucks is the fact that I am not the only customer there. The place is full of young professionals with their Louis Vuitton bags and their ridiculous shoes. This, in itself, does not bother me. (Except for you girl ahead of me today. If you want me to believe that's real, make sure they spell "Prada" right). What bothers me is the fact that their coffee orders are more complex than string fucking theory.

"I want a triple sugar free vanilla latte skim extra hot with no foam"
"I want a half caf soy latte with extra foam extra hot with light whip but no cinnamon and a half a shot of carmel syrup. Sugar free."
"I want the girl behind me to put her foot in my ass because my coffee order takes 35 minutes to punch in the computer".

These people piss me off. How difficult is a cup of coffee? I mean shit, I understand that a little flavor is good, but in the end, coffee is a means to an end. Its an addictive substance I use to prevent me from murdering my coworkers, nothing more.

I finally got to the front of the line and in front of me is this urban hipster type girl. With the emo glasses and the skinny jeans, and the smug look of someone who is by far smarter and cooler than I will ever be despite the fact that she slings coffee for a corporate monster in the suburbs.

I got the same thing I always get. A triple venti skim cinnamon dulce latte with an extra shot of espresso and light whip...

And then it hit me. MY coffee order was pretentious, too. I had somehow become one of those snotty suburbanites who order things that normally come with foam without it. Who demand their salad dressing on the side, who would sooner die before they ate something fried, who never leaves the house without sunblock or a matching purse.

I can't pinpoint exactly when I became that much of a full out jackass. Sadly, I am far too addicted to my coffee to give it up now. However, to differentiate myself from the well groomed holier than thou jackasses, I will be nice to the people who give me my coffee. I will occasionally not dry my hair before work.

I am convinced if I catch it in the early stages (being a coffee snob) then I can curb it before I ever say anything so snotty that it would make my own mother want to slap the shit out of me.

I woke up this morning and something just didn't seem right.
There wasn't a strange man in my bed or anything, but something was just off. It was in the middle of my shower that I realized what was missing.

The fact that I am not famous.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not completely unknown. There are a few websites (big ones even) where you can see a picture of my smiling face. But as it stands, Kathy Griffin is more famous than I am and this is a situation that needs to be rectified immediately. For fucks sake, paparazzi were lined up to see Paris Hilton getting out of jail, instead of waiting outside my apartment for me! I'll also have you know, that while Paris was getting out of jail, you all missed a great photo op of me sleeping and drooling on myself. You snooze you lose, bitches.

So, I've decided to make some lifestyle changes that will push me into the upper echelon of famous people. They are, as follows.

1. I have decided to stop wearing underpants immediately. I don't care if its -30, in the middle of winter and I still live in Chicago. No underwear. This has worked for really famous people more than once, and my doctor has assured me that it's unlikely I'll catch something riding on the metra sans underpants.

2. I will get drunk at wildly inappropriate times. I do, however, refuse to vomit on myself. However, expect to see me stumbling over myself with a blood alcohol level that rivals my IQ.

3. I will develop a drug problem that is obvious to everyone, and somehow manage to convince my mother that I'm really sober, despite the pictures of me and some unidentified female getting higher than Robert Downy Jr on a bender in a bathroom.

4. I will never actually work, but somehow people will pay me a lot of money for being beautiful.

5. I will start a bitch fight with some cute blonde for shits and giggles. This person will be less famous than me and will somehow be a threat to the awesomeness that is my image. I will then crush her under my stiletto.

6. I will wear ridiculous shoes all the time. Four inches will be the height of the smallest heel I own, and I will wear them everywhere. Grocery shopping, the gym, you name it.

7. I will stop wearing makeup outside the house during the day to make sure that you can all see that I look like I was hit in the face with a shovel when I don't wear makeup.

8. I will bring my Pomeranian, Zoe, with me wherever I go. Because she's my baby.

9. I will change my hair color more than is reasonable, or logical.

10. I will get a nose job. Despite the fact that my nose is just fine the way it is, I will have the entire thing overhauled.

11. I will never eat again. Ever. Size zero, here I come! And when I ultimately get treatment for my eating disorder, I will bulk up to a size two. No larger.

12. I will have whirlwind romances with various attractive men I've never heard of simply because they make a better accessory than a purse. I will eventually become engaged when I find one whose name I can't pronounce.

13. I will allow you to take pictures of me while I go shopping. Specifically grocery shopping, to make you all think that I've actually eaten since 1992.

14. I will go to high profile places and then try to hide under my coat, because like my dog, if I hide my face, you can't see me.

15. I will make sure that my best friend is famous as well. We will have some falling out, and to ensure that we both remain famous, I will become very good friends with Perez Hilton.

16. I will drive my car as much as possible to increase the chances of you following me home so you can stalk me there. Don't say I never worked with you.

See, loyal reader, the effort I am going to put forth to make myself famous for you? Now all I ask in return is that you start following me everywhere and taking pictures of me so I can whine about it.

Is that so much to ask?

Paris Hilton better watch out, there's a new bitch in town.

So I've gotten a few emails wondering where the hell I've been.

I wish I had some awesome answer for you. I've just been a lazy bitch, and haven't had much to say. True story.

Nothing is really new or exciting.

My car is a piece of shit, but this is not news. The last month alone I've spent in the neighborhood of $2,000 in repairs. Again. I might not know much about much, but I do know that $2,000 a month could get me a very nice new car. Nicer than a 2000 Malibu that won't fucking run ever.

I'm looking into some cute fast little cars that fit my personality (read: they look good with their top down and are relatively cheap).
If anyone has any suggestions, feel free!

Also, I'm probably going to start writing for NewsQuake.
Yep, pretty soon you won't be able to go anywhere on the Internet without me.
It's good to be queen.

My apologies.
I was going to sit here and write about my last date, but it looks like you have to go to Intelligent Humor for that.

Ive gotten a lot of great emails and IMs of people concerned about my health. Thanks so much guys. A special shout out to the devout Christians who want to lay hands and let Jesus heal me. That's definitely an offer one doesn't get every day, considering I live in an apartment building that's predominantly Hispanic, if anyone named Jesus lays a hand anywhere on me, they're getting maced.

I've gotten a few unofficial diagnoses. The good news: It's absolutely for sure not cancer. Woot. The bad news? They really don't 100% know what it is. And to be honest, I am tired. I'm really tired of feeling like shit, I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of spending the better part of my life in doctors offices so they can tell me they just don't know.

What I do know is that by following the advice of one doctor, I bled all over my mother's bathroom. The advice of another broke me out in hives. The advice of another damn near killed me. Another put me on four times the dose of steroids I'm normally on.

I've been sliced and diced and poked and prodded and I just can't do it anymore.

Furthermore, I don't have health insurance. I can't afford to keep going to the doctor. Its been dipping into the rent money, which is hard enough to come by, and to be honest, I can't afford to pay for specialists and all that shit if they can't give me an answer.
This entire endeavor has cost me well into the thousands, and I'm not at a point in life where an expenditure like that is acceptable without some sort of result, and there's not exactly a line of wealthy old men waiting to pay my medical bills.

I know that medical science isn't perfect. However, it's not cheap either. So, I'm not dying. That's all I really know.

Thanks for all the love and concern guys.
Here's hoping that Zombie Hips are in this summer, cause it looks like its here to stay.

I am a very, very angry monkey.

I finally got a new job (Woot!) but money is ridiculously tight right now.
So I scraped up just enough money for my electric bill.

You know, because I have a thing about sitting in the dark in the middle of the summer with no air conditioning.

I just spoke to the bitchiest woman alive who works at Com Ed. Apparently, I need another $200 that I don't have. Why? Because the person I originally spoke to was wrong.
When I asked her why the hell that person would tell me something that's not true, her only response is "I can't speak for anyone else who works here".

After getting huffy as fucking shit when I asked for a supervisor, she informed me that I'd have to wait until Tuesday.

I've never wanted to kick so many people's asses.

I make it a point to not yell at people for doing their jobs. I tend to be pretty good at directing my anger to the responsible parties.
And I rarely raise my voice.

This bitch had me fucking yelling. If I could reach through the phone and squeeze the life out of her, I fucking would have. I snapped my phone shut so hard that I broke part of it.

So In short:

Fuck you Com Ed. You suck. Your customer service is a bunch of incompetent assholes who are completely incapable of helping anyone, and you should be proud that they represent your company so wonderfully. I spend the majority of my day on the phone. I make it a point not to yell at people. So when you get me to a place where your "Customer Service Reps" ask me if they can do anything else for me and I almost reply "veer your car into oncoming traffic on the way home" there's a problem.

I can't wait to talk to the supervisor. I'm sure it'll smooth things over, if my past experiences with them tell me anything.

Ugh.

I'm going to warn you all now that the picture that comes along with this post is gross, and not for the faint of heart. Actually it's attached to (whats left) of my body and it kind of makes me want to chuck, so don't say I didn't warn you.



Ive been absent the last, ever, because I'm dying. And don't give me that shit about how we are all dying every day blah blah blah, because right now I am almost positive that I am dying at a faster rate than you are. Ive even been to the doctor who decided that he didn't know what was wrong, and in turn referred me to Doctor Kevorkian who decided that a punch biopsy in my side is the best way to figure out why Im dying.

Simple in house procedure, my ass.

That procedure has rendered me with a Zombie Hip.

This is the ultimate result of that simple procedure. This is my zombie hip.

The black line is where the bruise was marked to see if it..ahem...spread.

In case your wondering, that hurts alot. That's where I've been.

Now theres a big problem. I have this gross ass zombie hip and Ive only thought of 2 things to do with it.



1. Go up to all the people I have had sex with and show them. Explain that its a rare STD I picked up, conveniently right before I had sex with them. Then tell them that they ought to get tested.

2. Wear something revealing to the bar. Tell an outlandish story about my run in with a zombie. When they inevitably call bullshit, show them my side and then chase them out of the bar.



Its a sad day when I can only find 2 ways to fuck with people.

I am all sorts of stressing out.

I need a vacation. I also need money to go on that vacation.

I feel like I'm 3 seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

What started this?

I got mail at work. Trust me, if it's from someone I want to hear from, they know how to find me.

AND it's at the wrong office, so I get to wait until it gets here to figure out what sort of fucked up trouble I'm in now.

Fuck.

I am up and it is past my bedtime.

You may be wondering why I'm up. Or not, but I don't see anyone else writing on this page so pipe down.

I love the people I work with. I do.
However, I hate the job so much that it is now offically keeping me up at night.
Im turning into the person who sleeps through their alarm.

All 4 of them. Any reason to stay in bed with the blankets over my head.

Right now, it's 11:30. I have to be up in 6 hours.
I'm still here writing this, because the thought of going in tomorrow has stressed me out so badly that I can't sleep.

I love the people, but the job is wearing me into the ground.

Get another job. Easy, right?
Well, my credit is in the shitter. It's getting better, I'm in the process of trying to build it up, but it's still bad.
That coupled with the fact that no one seems to want to give me a job, well.

I've never been this miserable, and I have no idea what to do about it. I can't quit, I have bills, and although Netscape is helping significantly with those, I can't live off of that.

Despite what you think about the glamorous life of a writer, people aren't exactly beating down my door to give me money (bastards).

The thing is, I don't want a million dollars.
Ok that's a lie. I want oodles and oodles of money and fame.

But I'm realistic. I just want to live comfortably and have a job that I don't mind going to.

Any ideas?

Wow. A friend pointed out to me this morning that I haven't updated all month.
Sorry, I'm a shitty person.

My life really isn't all that exciting.

I'm writing a book...no idea yet when it's coming out.

Despite that, it's the same old shit.

I called Com Ed to see when my bill was due. I pay about 50 bucks a month, and I'm totally fine with that. So you can only imagine the minor stroke I had when they told me my total balance was $700.

Yea. Seven hundred one dollar bills.

They "mis calculated" my billing.

By a fuck ton.

$700? For that sort of bill I should have a lucrative methamphetiamine ring running out of my apartment. But since I don't, I'm sort of screwed.
It's a good thing I look good by candlelight.

I woke up today on the very pissed off side of the bed.


Perry claims that I work magic with my lists, so here's an Intelligent Humor Exclusive.



Things That Piss Me Off.

1. Being broke. Things are a little tight for reasons entirely out of my control. I was also a psychology major. Meaning: I can't add or subtract worth shit. Well, that's a lie. I can't add or subtract worth shit once I open my check book. I know that writers are supposed to have glamorous lives and all...but until this shit starts paying off, Chase is going to continue to rape me with overdraft charges. Yes, I accidentally bounced a check. But somehow, I don't understand how charging me $200 is going to prevent that from happening in the future. Hopefully there is some super rich man reading this, thinking "Yes, I have entirely too much money! I should send some to that TweekerChick so she can do things she likes to do...like eat." (Oh, and if you ARE that rich guy, I'll totally let you touch my boob)...

It has been awhile since I wrote anything after an entire bottle of wine and a few beers.
It's been one of those weeks.
I'll spare you all the gory corporate bullshit you don't wanna hear about.

Instead I feel like talking about Dan.

You know those people that you automatically like?
The type of guy that you want to hug and kiss because right off the bat he reminds you of someone that you trust. That you love. That is always there with a smile no matter what.

That's Dan. He's a big kid. On Saturday, we were going to get a glimpse of him helping him sing Gloria Estevan,Shania Twain, and Natalie Imbrulia.

He was always up for the challenge and that's part of what made him awesome.

As far as "real people" go in the Chicago Area....they tend to be few and far between. That's what made Dan so special to so many people (besides his inflatable guitar). He was the type of guy that always made you feel right at home.

My favorite memory of Danimal was when I showed up for karaoke my second time and demanded someone sing "Smooth" by Rob Thomas/Santana.
He rolled his eyes, but he was shaking his ass anyway.

He didn't care who you are, how much money you made, what you did for a living or any other of that superficial bullshit.
If you were cool, it's cool.
As far as anyone can tell, if Dan didn't like you, you are most likely a huge douchebag, and no one else does either.

Underneath everything, what he did, who he was, Dan was an amazing person and someone I am glad I got a chance to know. If you were his friend, you were his friend. No ulterior motives, no dramatic bullshit.

I haven't been hitting the scene as hard as usual since I've moved here, and being friends with Dan was one of things that made life a little bit easier.

Sadly, Danimal passed away unexpectedly on March 30. Leaving behind Andee, 5 kids (including Andee's little girls), and a lot more people who loved and cared about him.

Anyway, everyone will miss you Dan. Just don't tell anyone I actually cried.
In honor of Danimal, "Come Sail Away" (the Cartman Version) has been retired.
I know that God has a plan for everyone, but sometimes it just doesn't seem fair the ones he decides to take away.

So, I'm getting shitfaced in the ridiculous pushup bra he used to tease me about.

This ones for you Dan.
I'll miss you.
We'll miss you.

I am a tired girl!

But things are crazier than usual.

For whatever reason, all the sudden everyone wants a moment of my time. It's insane.

Everyone seems to want to talk with me about sex and love and relationships and all that shit.

So I finally caved.

You can hear me tonight, discussing love, sex, women, men, etc. Live. In my own voice.
Tune in!

You can actually HEAR me talk shit for once!

I am pissy today.

So instead of my usual witty and informative post, I am going to give you, quite simply, a list of things that suck.

1. Blisters. Especially ones you get on the inside of your calves. Yes, I could stop wearing hooker boots. But I'm not going to. So fuck you.

2. Insomnia. I like sleep. I get to do things in my sleep like pull off heists and sleep with movie stars. Ill take a threesome with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt over being awake any day.

3. Student loan payments. Had I known I'd be broke until roughly the end of time because of them, I never woulda gone. I wonder if they'll give me a refund.

4. Insurance Companies. Give me my $150 you tight wads.

5. Writing. Dont get me wrong, I like it. But with my real job and deadlines for writing, I work about 14 hours a day. That's a lot. I wouldn't mind as much, but the same people who have deadlines don't want to do nifty things like pay me. People like to read my writing. Because people like to read it, people publish it. Now if those same people would write me a fucking check, I'd be a happy monkey

6. Getting paid. Normally this is good. Because money buys me things that I like to eat. However, the first paycheck of the month always sucks because without fail I wind up back in negative numbers. How this happens, I don't know. I don't shop. I don't go anywhere. I don't pay for porn and I don't really eat anymore. So why the hell am I $100 in the hole before I pay rent? Oh yea. Refer to #5. Gah.

7.PMS. Would someone KINDLY remind my skin that I am not 14 anymore?

8. The 300 pound black lady in my office building. Shes cool and all, until we're all crammed in an elevator. It stops, and there she stands in all her tubby glory. And somehow she finds 8 square inches of space, and says "there's room!" and proceeds to wedge herself into the elevator. I wouldn't be suprised if she took a running start.

Bah.

If anyone knows a dermatologist with an Ambien prescription who wants to be my sugar daddy, let me know.

I dunno.

I'm having some serious writers block.
I'm not sure what the deal is.

I thought maybe I'd sit down and write a blog and get it all off of my chest.
About the emo, about the lack of sleep, about the fact that I'm overwhelmed and I can't deal without it.

But I sat down to write, and it's like my words won't work.
Every sentence I string together seems wrong.

It's all forced and so much more bitter than I thought I was.
A few times I considered walking away from it entirely, but unfortuantely for me, I'm not like other people. It's not that easy for me.

I'm not sure what to say.

I'm fine?

I'm always fine.

So.

Life has gotten slightly weird.

I find myself getting a lot of attention that I can't handle by myself.

I simply don't have the time to respond to 300 some comments about why I'm a whore.

So, I am creating a new policy.

Comment away, I encourage it. But because I can't respond to every post, I'm leaving Angry Ken in charge of dealing with ruffled feathers.

Simply because he's such a sweet guy.

Keep commenting, and emailing me though. I love hearing from you guys!

I am so homesick that it's sad.

So I called my friend Jayme to let her know what's going on in my world.

Me: I miss you guys.
Jayme: Why?
Me: I just do
Jayme: Well, Deannes a bitch, I think Shawn is gay and I'm a little bit off.
Me: I still miss you though.
Jayme: How sweet, I think I might puke.
Me: Im not sure why I miss you, now.
Jayme: Its cause of your lesbian tendencies
Me: I hate you. I write for FHM now.
Jayme: Seriously?
Me: Yep. Apparently my writing is awesome.
Jayme: For what it's worth, we still think you suck.

God I miss home.

I would do anything for Sesame chicken and crab rangoons.

I don't get paid till Wed.

That sucks.

That is all.

I’ve never been a huge fan of rules. I’m sort of stubborn, and I don’t like being told what to do ever. But rules are a necessary part of being a functional member of society. There are even designated places for people who choose not to follow those rules. We call that place prison. Although our everyday lives are tempered with regulations about what we can or can’t do in certain situations, there is a serious lack of any sort of guidance when it comes to relationships.

Instead of following the normal model of society, and having a set of expectations to abide by, we are allowed to go buck wild and do pretty much whatever the hell we want. Which means that no one, especially the people in these relationships, have any idea what on earth is going on. This eventually becomes a problem. Eventually, the relationship will go sour for one reason or another. It could be something complex, like the fear that the sex tape with you and the goat that you made while she was on vacation will hit the internet. Or something a little bit easier to explain, like that rash you got from that hooker in Tijuana. Regardless, I propose the following list of rules for breaking up, if only to make life a little bit easier for those of us who don’t have the slightest idea what the hell is going on.

Rule #1: You will not dump her within 2 weeks of any holiday that Hallmark makes a card for. Really, what’s worse than being dumped on Valentine’s Day? Being dumped on Thanksgiving or Christmas. It doesn’t matter what day you dump her, it will be seared into her brain as the day that you broke her heart and completely destroyed her life. I don’t care if you are the best man on earth. The day you dump her is the day you become the lowest form of life to her and anyone she’s ever had any sort of contact with. Try not to do this on her favorite holiday. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. A day of sloth and gluttony, it was a thing of beauty to me. Until I was dumped by the love of my life on Thanksgiving. What was once a glorious day of overeating and napping is now a day marred by my uncontrollable urges to hunt him down and punch him repeatedly in the face after drinking half a bottle of tequila.

Rule #2: You will not dump her at her place of residence. Why you would want to do this in the first place baffles me. She lives there. Which seems like a good idea, less of a commute for her and you can dump her and then leave. It seems like a good idea. But so did parachute pants. This is her home. She knows where all of the knives are, and at this point in time she would have very few reservations using them on you.

Rule #3: You will not dump her at your place of residence. She will probably cry, and you will probably want her to leave. And if you want to win an award for being a heartless bastard, dumping her and then telling her to “get out” would win you the gold. Plus, if she’s smart, she would make it a point to destroy anything near and dear to you. Nothing says “I think we need to see other people” like having to replace your TV because she threw your cell phone through it.

Rule #4: There will be an arranged meeting time in a neutral public setting so you can each return the other person’s rightful property. This should happen no later than one week after the breakup. After two weeks, you relinquish ownership of that property and your ex has the right to do with it as they see fit, including but not limited to: selling it on the internet, giving it to the person they cheated on you with or burning it. The property should be packed carefully and returned in the best condition possible. This is an important part that should prevent you from getting a garbage bag that contains the shattered remnants of your wardrobe and DVD collection. Nothing that was given as a gift shall be returned, as those are things that belong to you and a major part of the healing process involves destroying them or giving them to your next significant other.

Rule #5: Saying patronizing or condescending things to the person you are dumping is strictly prohibited. After telling someone that you didn’t really mean it when you said forever, you have no right to say things such as “You’ll be fine”, “You deserve someone better”, or my all time favorite “Time heals all wounds”. If you feel the need to say something comforting, you also deserve to know exactly how long time takes to heal a kick straight to your gonads.

Rule #6: If you aren’t capable of staying friends after things have ended, keep your trap shut. Friendships are relationships and take a great deal of time and effort to maintain. If you are going to try to remain friends and then at some point down the line (probably when she gets another girlfriend) freak out and bail, stating reasons such as “This isn’t healthy for you”, “You still have feelings for me” or “I have reasons and they are personal”, you’re a jerk. Being dumped is hard enough. Being dumped by your significant other and later on losing a friend is worse. Friendships after relationships aren’t easy but they are possible if both parties are capable of acting like adults. It tends not to work so well when one party cries like a little girl with a skinned knee when the other moves on.

Rule #7: You can still have sex as long as there’s an open and honest dialogue about it. Let’s face it, good sex is strikingly hard to come by. When you find it, keep it. This is a dangerous thing to do, and requires a great deal of willpower on both sides. Both sides need to acknowledge that the relationship is simply physical and there is no implied reconciliation. I strongly suggest having a lawyer draft up some sort of contract to ensure that both parties can agree to the conditions of this arrangement, otherwise things are bound to get messy.

Rule #8: Both parties will agree to destroy any copy of any sex tape they may have been stupid enough to make. After the Paris Hilton debacle, I have hard time trying to figure out why people still think it’s a brilliant idea to tape themselves doing the horizontal mambo, but they do. And these people inevitably break up, and a few months later find out that their sex tape is being shown on a website that also streams movies that have plots that involve foreign pool boys and rich slutty white women. If you don’t want the world to see you naked, don’t take pictures of it. Be sure to follow through with regards to this, so that someday your parents aren’t surfing the internet and come across your extracurricular activities in a stray pop up window. On the other hand, I could be totally wrong and destroying your chance at becoming a celebrity. It worked for Paris.

Rule #9: You will not spill dirty little secrets about your ex partner on your website, through your friends or any other medium. I’m going to be honest here, the chance of any female that has just been dumped listening to this rule are slim to none, so prepare for your humiliation. In a perfect world, both parties would be understanding to the fact that being in a relationship gives you a unique opportunity to see the other person in the way the rest of the world wouldn’t. However, this is not a perfect world, and hell hath no fury like a newly single woman. I suggest heavy drinking, because pretty soon everyone you’ve ever met will know that you get depressed when the baseball season ends, that you watch Sex in the City, and that you cry a lot, especially over your dog that died when you were 19.

Rule #10: You will not call the day after you rip her heart out and stomp on it to see how she’s feeling. It should be pretty self explanatory how she’s feeling. She’s feeling one of two ways. First scenario, she’s curled up in bed crying into your old t-shirt, trying to figure out what she did to make you not love her. The second scenario is the one in which she’s actually fine. She’s happy. Because she’s now sleeping with your best friend, everyone in your office, and your barber to get back at you for what you did to her.

Rule #11: Try not to trash talk. This is by far the hardest rule to enforce. Simply because it’s fun. There’s something therapeutic to revenge. There’s some sort of catharsis in turning your ex in for unpaid speeding tickets, having their car towed, or dragging their parents into things. After being dumped for not being pretty enough, nothing made me happier than dragging his parents into things. There was something almost cleansing about telling his father that we didn’t work out because he was exploring his sexuality and I just couldn’t be supportive of my boyfriend being with another man while he was dating me. It was one of my meaner moments and I’m almost positive that his mother still thinks he is attracted to men. (Not that there’s a thing wrong with being gay. He was from a Republican family and it was quite the hot button issue).

Breaking up a relationship is never an easy thing for either party. It’s not supposed to be. Saying goodbye to a promised piece of ass is something that is hard for anyone to deal with. Sometimes, rules make things easier for people to go about their daily lives. Unfortunately breakups are rarely easy, and aren’t particularly enjoyable for either party involved.

The big problem with rules is that they are made to be broken. There really should be a protocol that people follow when ending a relationship in order to make things easier for everyone involved. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t want this process to be a little less painful. Unless you happen to be my boyfriend. In which case all bets are off, and you can kiss that sweet little DVD collection you left in my apartment goodbye, after I tell your gay roommate that I think you have a little “thing” for him.

So, I've been doing some soul searching the past day or so, and I decided it was time to revamp and older post of mine and give it new life.

A few years ago, I did a post that is now featured on intelligenthumor.com titled "Defining the douchebag".

It was great and relevent, when I was in college.

However, I am no longer in college, I am now an adult in the corporate world.
Which is full to the brim with all sorts of douchebags.

So I bring you, Defining The Douchebag: The Corporate World Edition.

There are so many categories of the douchebags you will run into in the corporate setting that I definately don't have time to define them all for you here. So this will most likely be a first of a few installments.

If this offends you, it's probably because I'm describing you and exactly why your coworkers hate you.

1. This Isnt College Anymore? This specific douchebag drives me fucking crazy. They have a tendency to stumble into work every day in wrinkled, dirty clothes, reeking like rum and pot. That's fine, I've committed that particular sin more times than I'd care to admit. But the major difference here, is while I'm still too drunk to function I sit quietly at my desk. You choose to talk, often times loudly, to very important people. These people don't give a flying shit that you did body shots off a strippers tits. No matter how cool your boss is, there's a time and place for that shit. Also on that note, check your hormones at the door. Theres nothing creepier than hearing you discuss the hot chicks you're trying to get with, the amount of vicodin you took with your stash of Coors Light, or whatever other stupid thing you did. This is not a fraternity house, we will not give you a special shirt for this anymore.

2. How the hell did you get hired? This person is usually very very nice. And very fucking dumb. How they've managed to retain employment through this point in their life is baffling to everyone they associate with. These people are most likely kept on staff due to their ability to keep everyone else busy with important questions, such as "How the HELL did you graduate college?", and "Has it ever occured to you that Darwin was wrong?".

3. The pretentious moron. Every office has one of these. They are easy to spot by the way they wander aimlessly with a sense of self importance that rivals that of the CEO. They have their nose in everyone elses buissness, simply because they have no idea what the hell they are doing. This is the person who will ask you the same question. Over. And Over. And Over again. And then they will ask someone else. They will argue trivial points with you, simply because they can. They have time to do this because they have no idea what the hell they are doing otherwise.

4. The snitch. There's always one. The corporate world is more cutthroat than most professional sports. This is the person who will download porn with you on your work computer, and then turn you into HR. The easiest way to identify them is to wander into their cubicle someday. They will close out the window they were working in. Why? Because they were sending someone an email. About you.

5. The Life Isnt Fair Kid. This kid was a load better off swallowed. They tend to be young. Very young. They argue company policy like it's their job, simply because it's "not fair". Fuck the dress code! Why should I have to tuck my shirt in? Fuck the dress code! That's unfair! Why did I lose this account? Because I didn't sell it? So what? That's not fair! The best part about these guys is when they start realizing that they might actually have to do things such as work. They will constantly whine that it's so much easier for other employees. Management obviously favors them. It has nothing to do with the fact that they've worked here for 5 years. Nope. The world is conspiring against them. For some serious office fun, do what you can to make this person's life harder. Tell them that you saw the account first, even if you haven't.

More later. I'm off to pretend to work.

I've been distant lately.
Which makes me a bad, bad blogger.

The new site should be up and running soon.

Where have I been?

Swimming in a big vat of emoness.

One of my best friends decided that he can no longer be my friend because it's not healthy for him and it interferes with his agenda of behaving like a scared little boy.
As much as I like to pretend I don't care, I do.
I got over it when he dumped me, I'm sure I'll get over this. But it hurts, and that's just not fair.

Top that with the fact that I'm retardedly sick, and I am so much fun to be around that it's unreal.

Anyhooter.

I'm working on a few new articles (YAY!)

Expect articles touching on her friends and how to make them make your life easier, a run down of the types of people you date and how to work them, and a list of people you should cut out of your life.

Be sure to check out my new place, sit tight, and hit the donate button.

I have a best friend to try to drink away.

I feel like a grown up! I have my own website.

It's by far the most awesome thing ever.

Pretty soon you'll be able to find a bunch of good stuff there.

Be SURE you click here and sign up.

Go visit my new site!

Or I'll cry.

The only thing that is starting to piss me off about this whole blog thing is people fucking stealing my shit.

Seriously.

Is it that fucking hard to write your own shit?

Someone on myspace even stole my disclaimer. Upon further investigation, she also stole my last article. Which is going to be published. Which puts her in some deep shit if she doesn't take it down, considering it's likely that I will sign the rights to it over.

People who do that shit make me want to fucking puke.

Here's a thought. Come up with something original to say, or go fuck yourself.
I am aware that this blog is public, and for whatever reason getting a lot of attention.
Which is awesome.
On the same token, it's kind of overwhelming and infuriating to see people too unoriginal and pathetic to provide their own content leech off of yours.

These are my words, and my thoughts.
I'm aware that the internet is full of assholes who can't think for themselves, but Jesus Tapdancing Christ.

Maybe I'll start ripping off content from someone more talented than me, like Tucker Max.

So, I just got off of a great conversation with Carlos Xuma.

At first, I thought the same thing you were all probably thinking. It's just another guy on the internet who is trying to get in my pants.

We had a great conversation, and you will most likely be seeing more of me around his site.

And about him wanting in my pants: he didn't outright say he did, but who could blame him?

My pants are cute.

And for all of you still wondering: I am still waiting on the scans from FHM.

How to be honest and still get laid

A general problem I find when talking with my guy friends is the one of honesty in relationships. Now, don’t get me wrong, the men in my life are smart people. They know for an undisputed fact that honesty in relationships is key to success. They also know that if they are honest, they will never, ever, EVER get laid.
So what is a guy to do? How do you bring up something sensitive while still maintaining a sex life that consists of more than just your right hand?
I consulted a few of my favorite horny bastards and came up with decent solutions to some of your more pressing issues. You can thank me later when the sex is over.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: I don’t want to hang out with your girlfriends.
This is a pretty easy one. Tell her that you love spending time with her. Now, lie through your teeth and compliment her friends, especially that one femi-nazi who makes your nuts shrivel and retract. Explain to her that you feel that you monopolize enough of her time and that you think it’s unfair to her that you intrude on her time with her friends. If she argues, smile and thank her for being considerate of your feelings, but you know how much that crazy man hating bitch means to her, and go have fun, you’ll go watch the game with someone.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: You have a bushier mustache than I do.
Tread gently here guys. No girl in the world wants to know that you noticed her mustache. This is one topic that’s better not to approach at all, but I don’t know a single guy who is comfortable kissing Burt Reynolds. Sit back and assess how much this means to you. Then get off your ass and high tail it to the nearest spa. Buy her a gift certificate for a facial and find the person who is going to do it. Explain to her how beautiful you think your girlfriend is, but you want to spare her feelings, and if she could kindly suggest it to her. Then pay extra and bribe the aesthetician into pretending it comes with the facial.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: You left your toothbrush here, I know you did it on purpose, I don’t want to marry you and commitment scares the shit out of me.
Good one, Corky. She’s moving her shit in. One piece at a time. Unless you want this to get ugly quick, you need to get her shit out of there before she takes over half your closet, your bathroom, and she starts bringing in things like throw pillows and towels that are only there to be pretty. When you’re done vomiting from the sheer panic of your situation, mope around for awhile. Act like something is really tearing you up inside. She will eventually ask what’s wrong. Tell her that you need to talk to her.
Now is the time where you conjure up images of your pet turtle named Binky who was murdered horribly by a bird. Tear up a little bit. Tell her that you don’t know how to tell her this and you don’t want her to be upset, but the reason you love her is because every time you see her you get butterflies in your stomach. That the world feels like it stops for a minute. And that you noticed she left her shit there, and you’re scared that if she starts moving her stuff in, it will take away from that feeling. Then put that shit back in her purse, and explain to her that you never ever want to get used to her so that feeling never ever goes away.
Then wander around scratching your ass and drinking beer in your underwear, as you have now reclaimed your castle.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: You’re getting fat.
This is one you’ll have to suck up. Honestly, suggesting that she try Slim-Fast because it’s “really good” isn’t gonna cut it. This time, you’re going to have to bite the bullet. Even if you’re built like Adonis, you should pat your beer belly and tell her that you are very self conscious that you’re getting fat. Tell her that you signed up for a gym and you want her to go with you because you need the support.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: You’re a fucking bitch.
Chances are, if she’s being a bitch, she doesn’t want to hear it from you. The minute you open your mouth with that phrase, you can count on the fact that you’re not getting your dick wet. Run her a bath, book her a massage, something. Then tell her that you did that for her because she’s seemed really stressed out lately and you think that she needs some alone time to relax. Then book it the hell out of there and hide at the strip club.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: Yes, I think that actress is far hotter than you will ever be.
She knows the answer to this question. This is a test, and your stupid ass is going to fail. The right answer is not “No baby, you are far hotter than Angelina Jolie”. Because that’s a dirty lie. Angelina Jolie is proof that god is just and loves us. I’m a girl, and I’d fuck Angelina Jolie.
That being said, the answer to this is simple. You concede the fact that Angelina Jolie is, in fact, the hottest creature to roam the planet. And then tell her that you really prefer your women to be something that she is not. A few examples:
“I can see why people think Kate Moss is pretty, but I prefer that my girlfriend eats once in awhile”.
“Yea, Pam Anderson is pretty, but I think natural girls are beautiful”.
Then take a mental note of whatever you’re watching so you can jerk off to it later.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: I want to have a threesome with you and your best friend/my best friend/that hot chick at work/that girl down the street.
Tough one. I understand that threesomes are something that most guys dream of, however I am a female and I’ve been approached on this subject numerous times by my past boyfriend. Our conversation usually went something like this:
Him: Hey Clare, want to have a three some with someone infinitely hotter than you will ever be?
Me: No.
Him: You’re a bitch.

The problem with most threesomes is this tendency of men to want to have them with attractive members of the opposite sex. Most of the time, very attractive members of the opposite sex. This in turn creates some sort of cognitive dissonance for your girlfriend. If she has dark hair, dark eyes and a huge ass, and you want a threesome with someone who looks like Pamela Anderson, your girlfriend is going to feel unattractive. I know I did. This request carries serious implications of “you’re not good enough”. The best way to suggest this is to watch a movie that has a reference to a threesome in it. Bring it up then and tell her that you think it could be a lot of fun for both of you. Understand her hesitation, and respect her feelings on this one. Make this about her, and stress the fact that you think she will enjoy it. And keep holding your breath, Fabio, because it probably isn’t going to happen.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: I know you had a bad day, and I'm sorry, but I don't want to hear every inane detail about it.
This is a common one I hear from just about every guy I talk to . Their girlfriend has a bad day, and they are subject to listening to every single detail about it. This one, I am eternally guilty of. I can’t help it. When I’m really upset, I just start babbling about every aspect of the interaction, down to the type of shoes the bitch who pissed me off was wearing. The entire time I ‘m pissing and moaning, I am more than well aware that he doesn’t care.

Being told that my significant other doesn’t want to hear about it is simply not an option. This is not a good time to tell her that you don’t want to hear about it. Let her vent for a good few minutes. You’re a big boy, you have the attention span that lasts longer than three minutes. If you don’t, try Ritalin, it works. After that three minutes, she will eventually stop her bitching to take a breath (even on bad days, she has to breathe). You need to pay attention and look for it, because if you miss your opportunity you’re stuck. When she takes a pause that is your time to shine. Wrap your arms around her waist, kiss her once right on the lips, and say “Baby/ Sweetheart/SugarTits, I’m sorry you had a bad day. But you’re home with me now, and that’s all that matters. Don’t let that stupid bitch* ruin our night. Come on”. Then take her to do what you originally planned.

* The stupid bitch line only applies if the person who has enraged your girlfriend is not her mother, sister or best friend.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: Brush your teeth before I vomit.
This is a tough one. On one hand, if you know she needs to brush her teeth, you’re already in a delicate situation. On the other hand, no one wants to make out with someone that tastes like left over garlic chicken. I had an ex who used to love to taste like stale beer and cigarettes, and I’d rather take a punch in the box than kiss that. So what do you do?

This is another one of the many times in your relationship that you need to nut up and accept full responsibility for something that is in no way, shape or form your fault. Pull away from her, try to act embarrassed if you can. Tell her that you’re so sorry to ruin the moment, but you had garlic/onions/something stinky for lunch and it’s making you uncomfortable and you want to go brush your teeth. Most girls will think “I had stinky stuff too, maybe I should do the same”.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: I want to poke you in the butt.
This is an easy one. I tackled this one with a friend of mine awhile ago, and he said the results were brilliant. While you’re sitting with your girl, tell her that you read an article about anal sex. Run down the details of this article and tell her the truth. The orgasms from anal sex are supposed to be far more intense than the orgasms from regular sex. Tell her that nothing would make you happier than watching her get off that hard. If you want extra credit, actually find an article that substantiates your claim and read it with her. Make sure that it isn’t this article, and be sure that it’s from a women friendly website. (A women friendly website is one that doesn’t feature girls with huge boobs doing strange things to animals, in case you needed that cleared up). Suggest you try it. She’ll say no. Automatically. Tell her you understand, but you promise you’ll be gentle, and if she doesn’t like it, you’ll never try it again.

The problem here being, if she actually lets you do it, you can’t just slam it in her butt unless you want her to have a surprised look on her face for the rest of her natural life. You actually have to do what you said you were going to do this time.

What you’re too much of a pussy to say: I am exhausted, and this will never happen again, but I am too tired to have sex please leave me alone.
It would figure. The one time you really don’t want to have sex is the one time she’s all fired up and ready to hop on and ride you like a Harley on a bad patch of road. This will never happen again, until the next time you are too tired to have sex. So realize what you are doing. Now is the time to be honest. Tell her that you love her. That she is your world. All of that shit. And then tell her the truth. You are exhausted and feeling very vulnerable and right now what you’d really like is to just snuggle for awhile. She will be touched that you were so candid with feelings that are considered traditionally taboo for men to discuss, and she’ll most likely stop trying to get on your jock. The key to this is honesty, while still maintaining physical contact with her. If you push her away completely, you’re not going to get laid for awhile. Kiss her, wrap your arm around her and try to manage your best content smile when you snuggle beside her.


All you need for a successful relationship is open lines of communication. Provided you lie through your teeth and tell her the truth in a way that will ensure Little Elvis gets paid some attention. Before I get flooded with email about condoning lying to your girlfriend…that’s not what this is about. There is a stark difference between lying for the sake of lying, and presenting relevant information in a way that won’t hurt someone’s feelings. One is a lie, the other one is the key to successful human interaction. This is about being honest with your partner without calling her a fat bitch with horrible friends and a mustache.