I am continually amazed at the level of douche this city produces. Though it is apparent that no man in the tri-”state” area is eligible dating material, I occasionally think DCDs are amusing friends. They always have amazing tales of debauchery and generally like to pay for things (plus, they are excellent material for the blog). Time and again, however, I am proved absolutely wrong. So DCDs let me help:
HOW TO BE A FRIEND IN 3 EASY STEPS
Don’t try to sleep with me. I don’t want to sleep with you. We have established a friendship and I will never be hard pressed enough to want to dabble in your soon to be discovered disease-riddled past. Not when I’m drunk, not when I’m single, not when I’m in a relationship, not when I’m at work, not when I’m out, not when I stay in, not when you’re lonely, not when I’m lonely, not when my mom is in town, not when I’m sick, definitely not when you’re sick (gross), not when your girlfriend is on a business trip, not when pigs fly, hell freezes over, etc., etc. No.
Every 20-30 minutes stop talking long enough to see whether I am still breathing. It can be hard work taking in all that hot air that you’re spewing out. Be kind, make sure I’m alive, and refresh my drink.
When in doubt about my intentions toward you, see #1 and do #2 (especially the last part).
“Love has no pride.” True statement. Just one small, itsy bitsy, insignificant detail – it ONLY applies when both parties are in love. When one party decides to quit it rather than hit it, then this little saying must immediately be trashed.
I was reminded of this recently while listening to stories about a girl who was dumped by her boyfriend, we’ll call her Princess. While I feel for Princess, the insanity of her post breakup actions are degrading to the entire female population and she must be stopped. So my heartbroken little Princess, put on your big girl panties, put DOWN the cell phone, and CLOSE facebook, cause I’m about to drop some knowledge on your pathetic ass.
True facts:
Pathetic is not pretty, happiness is. Work on it.
Posting about your happiness (or sadness) on facebook is pathetic. See #1.
Emailing any of his family/friends (virtual or otherwise)/relatives/distant acquaintances is pathetic. See #1.
Having your mother email your ex, when you’re 35 (or any age for that matter) is TOTALLY pathetic. See #1.
Driving to his house in the middle of the night is pathetic. See #1.
Driving to his house in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day is really pathetic. See #1.
Driving to his house in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day while drunk is unbelievably pathetic. See #1.
Driving to his house in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day while drunk and running out of gas AND broke is inexcusably pathetic. See #1.
Driving to his house in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day while drunk and running out of gas AND broke, then demanding gas money while screaming up to him from the street is delusional. See a therapist.
When you’re dumped, you have so little control. You lose a huge piece of your happiness, and you’re powerless to stop it. BUT the one thing you retain complete authority over is your pride. So keep that misbehavin’, trash talking, alcohol guzzling, facebook posting, little fucker in check and just focus on happiness.
P.S. My own irony is not lost on me. I know that I wrote about facebook destroying my soul, which is not exactly material for a pride parade. BUT the difference is I worked it out privately on here and not on facebook for him to see. It’s not a bad thing to break down occasionally, it is a bad thing to have a break down in front of him. Key distinction.
While roaming free in the wild, I came upon a relatively rare breed of boy – the monogamist. In theory, this should be every girl’s dream guy – the boy who wants to be your boyfriend, wants to introduce you to mom, and wants to stay in on a Saturday night curled up in your bed watching a movie. Throw in a large bouquet of wild flowers in your favorite colors and this guy is adding up to be perfect. Then on the fourth date he asks to be your boyfriend (I’m exaggerating, he actually asked if we could “update our facebook statuses” – vomit)…this is where reality pummels theory.
Four dates??? What do you know about me? You know this tiny little slice of me that is funny and likes to wear dresses. You probably can’t name my hometown or the location of my favorite city hideaway. As lovely as the four dates have been, you are working with a superficial sliver of the surface. Granted, you picked a great sliver to know, but there is a whole world of mess and ridiculousness that you haven’t even touched. And, I won’t for a minute tolerate another relationship, where someone makes me feel bad about who I am. It took a long time to get to this level of imperfection, and I’m going to rock it. You better learn to love it.
So while I loved the very sweet gesture, it was actually a big, giant red flag that you don’t want to be my boyfriend, you just want to be a boyfriend.
You have to delete. Deleting ex-boyfriends/whatevers/etc. is the only way to save your precious little soul from being attacked by relentless, unexpected tidbits of information that storm into your consciousness through the “internets.” The bastards.
For example, you’re having a perfectly happy Friday…like a really wonderful, sun-shiney, doing no work, happy Friday. It’s the kind of day, where worries aren’t something you can fathom and your most pressing concern is what kind of delicious treat you will have for lunch. It’s THAT kind of luscious happiness.
Then since you aren’t really doing any work, you decide to login to facebook. (This seems innocent enough.) You read your emails, read everyone’s latest status updates, peruse some random photos of people you don’t know, then suddenly you can an itch. (This is where things go wrong.) You quietly ask yourself…I wonder what such-and-such ex is up to? Involuntarily, your curiosity transports you to their page. Within seconds, you are staring at the casual flirtations of some lovely new face that you have never seen before. (This is where your day gets ruined.)
Who is this trick? When did she show up? Is her body as cute as her face or is this some deceptive photography? There is only way to answer these questions. Google. (Damn you, google, damn you.)
So I googled. She’s a [insert really awesome job that makes me jealous], she’s a recent addition to his life, and she’s really adorable. A “this sucks” feeling stabs me repeatedly. I allow myself to wallow in the fact that she’s probably effortlessly wonderful at all the things I suck at…she probably never has chipped nail polish and always has expertly applied makeup, she probably has a really clean bedroom, and can’t stand to miss a work out, she’s probably always on time, and can’t wait to get married, she probably doesn’t google/facebook stalk, she’s probably perfect and wonderful and charming…whoa. Deep breath. Punch self in face. Come back to reality.
Who cares about her? I’m pretty bad-ass myself. So what if I can never keep my nails perfectly polished? I’m pretty damn cute and I have great hair. I’m not thin and I hate the gym, but I’ve lost ten pounds this month. My room is a mess, but it’s filled with adorable dresses. My job is amazing and every single day I get to help people and change the world (it’s a very small piece of the world…but it’s mine) and someday it will reward me handsomely. Did I mention that I have fabulous hair? I also have a PINK frickin cruiser bike, and I’m super witty.
So…no tears for me, no wallowing, no feeling like just because I’m not a size 2 that I’m not good enough…and no letting anyone make me feel bad about myself (especially me – preventing abuse starts at home, after all). You know what this calls for??? Oh yeah, I’m going there…
Email subject lines are for the general subject of the email – they are NOT for the actual text of your email. For example, the following is a flagrant abuse of the subject line:
Now, I know this doesn’t seem like such a terrible crime (and in the grand scheme of your DCD tricks – it’s pretty low). However, it’s a flag – a big red, DCD, waving flag that the recipient of said email is warned…they are walking in DCD territory – be alert.
This email says several special things about you, my little DCD friend:
You are lazy
You think you’re too important to send actual proper emails with a REAL subject, greeting, message, and closing (not that tricky, I promise)
You don’t think your potential companion is important enough to even bother with an actual full email – you didn’t even write “hey” in the subject line. C’mon boys, it’s three extra frickin letters and a tap on the return key. (Your potential date is TOTALLY worth a tap on the return key).
If this is how little effort you’re putting in at the beginning of the “relationship” – sweet Christ – imagine how terrible you will be when you actually feel comfortable!!!
So, buck up – take five extra seconds and write an actual email…OR…and I know this is going to sound crazy, but stick with me. Why don’t you just CALL the girl??? She’ll appreciate it and you’ll avoid this doucher mistake.
Love always – your guide to living a douchebag-free life,
…much to my own detriment, I forgot this rule. More than a year ago, I met this guy and I was pretty sure I hated him. My DCD-senses were tingling something fierce, but I figured worst case scenario he would be good blogging material. He was.
The only reason I even entertained his foolishness last year is because I was going through a “low” period, and he smelled blood in the water. Quickly having come to my senses, I have spent a solid year ignoring him. However, you know life comes in waves and the past few weeks have been crashing against the rocks. In a moment of weakness, I didn’t ignore him…stupid girl. The convo went something like this:
Snarky shark: Can I take you out this week?
Fanfrickingtastic: Sure, let me check my schedule at work tomorrow.
Snarky shark: So are you single or am I just buying you drinks to buy you drinks?
Fanfrickingtastic: F*ck you.
Snarky shark: Be careful or you won’t get invited on the boat. (fft sidenote: like I care) You should call in sick and come out on the boat (like I don’t have actual work to do).
Fanfrickingtastic: …
Snarky shark: You going to bring a bathing suit or just let the girls hang out? (vomit)
Fanfrickingtastic: Ridiculous
Snarky shark: So what are you wearing?
End of convo.
How old am I? 15??? Are we in a yahoo chat room? Who does this shit work on? Seriously, this is my own damn fault. I am embarrassed that I even allowed the conversation to get that far.
I’m going to take a shower to get this feeling of ick off me.
Most of my friends in relationships want and are waiting to get engaged (and/or recently have gotten engaged – so excited for all of you). But for me, I am waiting to WANT to get engaged. Granted this is probably the result of calling off twoengagements, and then promptly having my heart broken by a guy that I would have married in a heartbeat. So now, I’ve just lost all motivation for the sport, and I am content to be contractually bound to myself (and several credit card/student loan companies) only.
In theory that is good…I won’t rush into anything.
In reality this is bad…I am totally going to be that old crazy aunt to all of my friend’s children. You know the “aunt” I’m talking about – she’s not actually a blood relative. She shows up to events with two bottles of wine (one for everyone else, one for herself). She gets drunk and starts talking about inappropriate subjects regardless of who can hear. She has a string of live-ins that you can remember only through nicknames (“the one that never had a job”, “the one who is going to leave his wife,” etc.). She offers to watch your children but you fear they would end up watching her – and they would likely never fully recover from the experience. That’s going to be me.
Looking forward to it. I am available to babysit anytime.
If you could spend one year in perfect happiness but afterwards you would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so? If not, why? ~ The Book of Questions
No road trip is complete without a thorough soul-searching tour of the Book of Questions. Answering the questions is a cutesy way to gain a better understanding of your poor, trapped-like-a-rat co-pilot, and like any other car game it is a good way to pass the time. Well the book of questions is no game. No, no…no game at all. It should come with a warning that says, “Someday you will grow up and these questions won’t be a cutesy game, sister…they will be your real life and it.will.suck. Surpise! Joke’s on you!”
So thank you, Life, for making the Book of Questions my reality. Choose one: greatest love vs. dream job. You get to be madly, passionately crazy over precisely one of them, so choose and choose wisely, because there are no second chances.
I tried for a while to make no choice – ha, Life, suck on that! However, Life ain’t no dummy. Life upped the ante and gave him the same option (the job or the girl). Which leaves me with no guaranty that he will pick me, even if I do pick him. AND if we do both pick each other does it even work? If I don’t pick him, won’t I be stuck wondering about him indefinitely???
The answer is yes. As I get up and head off to my dream job, I will wonder about him.
So I propose we change the title of the book from “The Book of Questions” to “The Book of This Is A Practice Test For Real Life and How Bad It Is Going to Suck Because the Questions Will Be Real and You Will Be Stuck With Your Answer, and Though Your Life Will Still Be Fabulous Because You are Fabulous and Work Really Hard to be Successful, You Will Always Have to Occasionally Wonder Did I Make the Right Decision and Then Force Yourself to Do Some Productive Work or Laugh With Good Friends So That You Forget That You Ever Had to Make a Decision in the First Place Book.” My proposed title truly conveys the true purpose of the book. To join in my name changing efforts, please send letters of support to:
Workman Publishing Company
225 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014-4381
212-254-5900 (phone)
212-254-8098 (fax)
Rubbish. Midnight Train to Georgia is absolute rubbish. Don’t get me wrong, I bop along and sing the tricky back up vocals like I am an original member of the Pips. HOWEVER, the catchy nature of this tune does not make up for its terrible message. Let’s dissect:
Verse 1:
L.A. proved too much for the man,
So he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know,
He said he’s goin’ back to find
Ooh, what’s left of his world,
The world he left behind
Not so long ago
Synopsis: Things got tough for some man, so he’s being a big time quitter and going back to what’s easy after hardly trying at all.
Verse 2:
He kept dreamin’
That someday he’d be a star.
But he sure found out the hard way
That dreams don’t always come true.
So he pawned all his hopes
and he even sold his old car
Bought a one way ticket
To the life he once knew,
Synopsis: Shit didn’t go as plan, so he sold all his crap (aka he’s broke) and he’s moving 3,000 miles away from you. Hope you don’t mind.
And after all that, Gladys Knight has the gall to sing:
He said he would
Be leavin
On that midnight train to Georgia, (Did he even consult you???)
And he’s goin’ back
To a simpler place and time.
And I’ll be with him
On that midnight train to Georgia, (I sure as hell hope he bought your ticket)
I’d rather live in his world
Than live without him in mine
What the f*ck, Gladys? You are a following broke man who gave up on his dreams and you (after like two weeks), and you’re going to move to Georgia with him??? Do you know how far away Georgia is from California? I’m sure things are all peachy keen on that 30 hour train ride, but what happens when you actually get to Georgia? What happens when “his dreams” don’t work out in Georgia either? Who is going to dry your tears when you find out he’s sneaking around with some two bit trick? Plus, is your life so sad that you had NOTHING else going on in LA that you can just drop it all to be with him? Pathetic. I am not a fan of this poor decision-making, Gladys, not a fan at all. How did the Pips even let you get away with this business?
Of course, I also believe that you should live without regret and that “what the hell” is almost always the best policy, so who am I to judge?
(world, world)
(is his, his and hers alone)
(world is his)
(his and hers alone)
(all aboard)
(one world)
(her man, his girl)
Ive got to go
I am sorry if my incessant coughing is keeping you up. It sure as shit is keeping me awake and watching bad British comedies at 2:30am. This is COMPLETELY unnecessary. I adore sleep. In fact, last night I got nearly 15 hours of sleep due to the wonders of Robitussin…glori-f*cking-ous. Tonight, assuming that sleep settles in asap, I will be looking at no more than four hours of sleep. Do you know how poorly I am going to have to treat my coworkers and the lovely constituents of my boss’ district because of this??? It will be a blood massacre (and that’s not good for business).
So, please accept my sincere apology and please join in my letter to nyquil. I have attached it for your reference.
Lots of love,
Your favorite coughing (and out of Robitussin) roomie, fanrickingtastic
Dear Nyquil,
You Mother F’ers. If I remember correctly, you are the “the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest and have a good morning medicine,” are you not??? Is that supposed to be ironic? Because I am nighttime coughing, sniffling, and pissed off, and your meds are doing nothing. How is this possible? Nyquil is practically a date rape drug with it’s sedative qualities, but here I am wide-eyed and COUGHING at 2:30am.
I demand a refund for this injustice. Tomorrow night is NYE and I need my beauty rest so that I can be a sparkly little dancing queen. SO not only do you owe me a refund, but you also owe reparations for the good time I am now NOT going to have tomorrow because I will be tired and very likely STILL coughing. Please send a check and some Robitussin to the lovely ladies of Euclid St. immediately.
Kthnxbai,
Fanfrickingtastic and the lovely roomie duo, Mariffany
