Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part VI

“I should have chopped his wood into bloody bits of confetti and sprinkled him along the edges of the interstate. The best ideas always come too late.” 

Anyone familiar with the book/movie American Psycho?  Well the guitar strumming, man-bun wearing, seemingly sweet and sensitive dude had merely been masking his inner Patrick Bateman until now.  We were engaged in very normal and boring vanilla coitus (I hate that word) when out of nowhere he clamped both of his hands around my neck.  The tone wasn’t so much in that playful erotic way, but more in that “bitch, I’m gonna squeeze the fucking essence of life from you” kind of way.  I’ve never felt truly afraid in these types of situations until that night.  And I even dated a jerkoff who would blindfold me with black saranwrap, stuff a scarf in my mouth and run the tip of an extremely intimidating knife over my backside, and all the while berating me with slurs like “slut” or “filthy whore.”  Yeah, he didn’t have an imaginative vocabulary.  I never could take him seriously though since he played competitive chess, had a pierced dick and would only drink room temperature LaCroix.  He had “pussy incapable of murder” written all over his tattood body.

I reached up and began pulling and scratching at The Hillside Stranger’s hands, but his fingers just squeezed harder and deeper into my skin until my eyes started to sting, and tears ran down the side of my face. I was really sad that the guy who was going to murder me wasn’t more attractive, and the last thing I would eat would be the crumbs falling from his beard.  I violently twisted beneath his weight trying to throw him off me, and that’s when my service dog harnessed the spirited DNA of his badass wolf lineage!  Fuck yeah poo bear!!  Savin’ me and stuff!

My dog made a sound I had only heard him make once before, and that was when his best doggy pal tried to steal his peanut butter Kong while he was busy licking his wrinkled penny.  Patrick “hipster” Bateman released his grip on my neck and moved away from me.  He clearly recognized the growl as a precursor to 80 pounds of teeth and terror unleashing on his exposed pale ass.

Now, a wise person would have shoved this naked aggressor out into the hallway and locked the door behind him, tossing out only his t-shirt but no pants, as a final “fuck you.”  Again, I am too nice.  I realize my friends who know me well are reading this and rolling their eyes thinking “Bitch, please!  When have you ever been concerned about niceties?”  My fault is that I’m a people pleaser so I simply said “I think I’ve had enough” as I grabbed my wolf and headed for the panic room (aka the bathroom).  I stood under the steamy hot shower trying to figure out what had just happened.  Would he actually have harmed me had my half-dog/half-unicorn not intervened at a pivotal moment?  Would a horn finally sprout from the middle of my dog’s head?  What about wings…does he get wings too because all of my stuffed animal unicorns have them??

Most guys would have taken the hint and bounced while I was in the shower, stealing my laptop and wallet before vanishing if they had any brains.  I finally emerged from the bathroom as pink as a rotisserie hotdog at a gas station. I expected an empty room but this turd was fast asleep IN MY FUCKING BED!  I did exactly what I do in all undesirable situations that aren’t going my way.  I took a couple of Xanax and escaped into a mental void.

I woke up a few hours into my slumber to bizarre sucking sounds coming from his word hole.  I have no idea what he was dreaming about but it probably involved sucking virgin blood from a two-headed goat’s crusty nipple. Or maybe he was an algae eater cleaning a fish tank?  Who fucking knows what creepers dream about when they’re not murdering in real life.  I peeled myself off the bed and gave him the stink eye while I packed up my stuff, trying to be as loud and obnoxious as possible…maybe even running the zipper on my backpack up and down several times for sheer annoyance.  And possibly twisting the ends of my phone charger around my fists to make an impromptu garrote.

That motherfucker didn’t even stir.  He was a fuzzy growth of mold starfishing on my king-size!

I needed coffee and my dog needed a tinkle, so we headed outside in search of caffeine and a grassy patch.  It physically hurt to swallow my drink…like strep throat hurt!  My voice was hoarse and my neck had legit bruises like a victim from Law & Order: SVU.  It was the middle of July in North Carolina.  Turtlenecks and scarves were out so how was I going to explain my purple neck to friends and coworkers?  Um, I clothes-lined myself playing beach volleyball??  Nah, they know I hate the sun and sand.  And doing anything that makes me sweat.

By the time I arrived back to the room I was more pissed off than a fat kid in the salad bar line.  Not only did he infringe upon my weekend of self-reflection but he tried to choke me out like I was Ted Bundy’s hooker. I grabbed a pillow (one of the firm ones!) and hit him over the head, telling him to wake up because he needed to get out of my room so I could check out.  He mumbled something about “5 more minutes” as if I was his mother trying to wake him for first period.  He dressed without saying much and together we rode the elevator down to where the valet was waiting with my car.  I was expecting him to go the other way but he just hung out like a malignant tumor.  And then he pulled one last final bit of bullshit on me!  He wanted a ride home.  I asked him if he even had a home, kind of making a joke, but not really.

Home ended up being 30 minutes out of my damn way and I was forced to make small talk with the shit stain who tried to conceivably kill me the preceding night.  Nothing awkward about this situation at all.  Perfectly normal to drive your assailant home the morning after.

I had a three-hour drive to contemplate my weekend, and the weekend before, and the last 6 months of my life.

I arrived at several conclusions in response to the poor decisions I had made:

  1. Don’t obnoxiously announce my New Year’s resolution to become a better person to the people who know me well. They’re well aware that I’m a complete shithead and tolerate me just the way I am…very emotional, often drunk, mouthy as fuck and sometimes promiscuous.
  2. Write down the names of the people I sleep with in my journal so I don’t have to actually recall the full experience to remember, or not remember. And shower in between just out of respect for guy #2.
  3. Don’t worry about what people are saying behind my back because it’s better than them saying it to my face, and then having to punch them. And always stick my finger in foam desserts when the opportunity presents itself.
  4. Don’t off myself over a ginger who poo-poo’d on my feelings. If I’m going to kill myself then at least do it for a worthy cause, like Damien Echols never responding to any of my letters I penned while he was in prison.  I mean, fuck, he only had 18 damn years of doing nothing and he couldn’t write me back!?  For shame!
  5. Don’t go to places like Asheville and expect to “find myself” or sort out my dirty laundry. Go to places like Asheville to devour delicious cuisine and imbibe fancy beer.  If I need to find myself, then I’ll just take some acid and forget I was ever lost.  And it will only set me back $10.  Now that’s some affordable fucking healthcare!
  6. If someone tries to strangle me, twist wildly until a unicorn disguised as a Shepherd mix shows his teeth and emits a death roar. And if my attacker asks for a ride home the next day, then drive him in the opposite direction of home and dump him in a field miles from anything.  Toss him the bottle of water that’s only got one inch of backwash floating in the bottom and has been marinating in my cup-holder for 3 days.  And then squeal my tires as I drive off into the hellscape that is my life…

The End

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Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part V

 

“So off I went with this stranger whose name I had learned earlier in the night but had already forgotten.  It isn’t like I was going to sleep with him or anything…”

 

Spending 48 hours in the hospital under suicide watch forced me to do some much needed soul-searching.  I had nothing better to do anyway since I was denied a writing utensil, paper, books, privacy or even a trip to the fucking bathroom.  You can read more about my own Nurse Ratched experience here.

As I lounged in my opened-back hospital gown, I concluded that it wasn’t the rejection from a guy that had made me miserable enough to waste a month’s worth of Xanax in one night.  My poorly guided stab at self-harm was about disappointment and the humbling realization that my life had already peaked.  I was never going to meet anyone who could fill the void Jason had left in my life.  All the dick in the world couldn’t distract me from his absence.  There was a massive deep crater in the landscape of my future and I had no idea where to go.  My behavior over the past several months had been a string of futile attempts to make something grow in that vapid desolate hole his death had bored into my heart.

I made the decision to remove myself from the toxic aspects of my current life, at least for a few days.  I wanted to gather up the splintered pieces of myself and create something new and improved, or at least not make any new cracks in my fragile shell.  I just wasn’t sure where to start, so I began with a hastily planned trip to the mountains. Mountains solve everything, right?  Just my dog and I spending some quality time together, drinking craft beers on shaded patios and people watching from a benign distance.   I was preparing for some serious mental tidying up so I grabbed my journal and plenty of pens.  Surely I could write my way through this!

I was released from the hospital on a Wednesday and the Xanax had still not completely worn off by Friday morning, when I was set to leave my house and drive three hours up a mountain.  Everything was in slow-motion as I glided through the curves and tried to connect the dots of the previous weekend.  My head was pure fuzz and my eyes rolled lazily around in their sockets.  I probably shouldn’t have been driving…but we made it.  I outfitted my dog in his service-animal vest, tossed the car keys to the valet and checked into the modern and overpriced hotel, which was the only place I could find at the last minute.  I figured the epiphanies and self-discoveries I would stumble upon over the next two days would be totally worth the cost.  I had no idea I was going to be hit with a $1,800 medical bill the following month.

The first thing we did was have lunch at my favorite pretentious vegetarian café.  I ordered a fancy organic beer and a bottled water for my dog.  The faint smell of Asheville weed hung over us as I enjoyed my Buddha Bowl.  I was relieved to be away from the bar and the humiliating memories of my public meltdown.

Service Dog catching contact buzz

We walked around after lunch and ended up at the Asheville Yacht Club which is a dive bar not unlike the one I was trying to escape three hours east.  What can I say, I have a type. I enjoyed a very tall lukewarm PBR and tried to act like I belonged there, which is really challenging when you’re as awkward as I am.  Just going to the grocery and having to interact with cashiers gives me hives.  I kept checking my phone and pretending to be on high social demand, laughing at texts I had already read days ago.  It didn’t take long before two beardy and long-haired hipsters with guitars slung over their backs wandered over and tried to start up a conversation.  Were they homeless street musicians, or just street musicians…or maybe just homeless?  I couldn’t tell but they had that dirty look I go for, so I figured why not?

The more attractive of the two asked me about my service dog and I explained to him that he was not allowed to inquire about my disability due to ADA laws, but then I explained he was technically a counter-fit service dog and all I had to do was pay $150 for a legit looking vest, certificate and ID card.  So he accused me of being morally disabled.   I thought that was a clever enough comment to warrant further conversation.  We talked for over an hour and I downed a second very large and lukewarm PBR, trying to hold in my burps like the lady that I am.  Hipster #2 left us to go beg for change or something, and Hipster #1 invited me to another bar to watch some friends play highly forgettable singer/songwriter crap.    So off I went with this stranger whose name I had learned earlier in the night but had already forgotten.

2am finally arrived and a decision had to be made.  Do I walk back to my hotel room alone or do I invite him over for an after party.  He said he had some contraband on him and that was all I needed to know to make an informed decision.

We polished off the vodka I had smartly packed and ended up naked not long after…so much for my weekend of self-reflection and life-tidying.  All was well the first night and we ended up hanging out all day on Saturday too. He followed me around like a well-behaved puppy but by dinner time I was ready to see his knotted man-bun walking away, becoming smaller and smaller until he finally disappeared.  But I’m too fucking nice so I let him orbit the rest of the evening.

We ended up back at my hotel room Saturday night with extra beer in tow.  My dog was clearly not pleased with this interloper taking up half of the real estate on the bed.  I wasn’t thrilled either but I didn’t know what to do with him.  He obviously had no job and no particular place to be, so I was stuck.

My weekend of “me” turned into a weekend of “we” and I just wanted him to stop playing his guitar and get out of my room. All I desired was to curl up with my dog and regret the last week of my life in silent pain.

We fucked again because I didn’t know how else to shut him up, and I figured if his face was planted in my honey pot, then at least he’d be quiet long enough for me to conjure up a masturbatory-worthy image of Ryan Gosling so I could get off and go to bed.

And then shit got real creepy…

Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part IV

“He was a ginger and a Leo…I should have known better”

Part III ended with me catching “the feels” for the (almost) final person I had a questionable tryst with in 2016.  It started out as all of my relationships do…at the bar.  We had been casual acquaintances for months with the occasional flirtatious comment here and there.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  And then one afternoon, out of the fucking blue, he whispered in my ear that we would have a bubbling beaker of physical chemistry between us, although he didn’t say it so eloquently.  His version was “We’d have really awesome sex!”

A week later he invited me to a show at a coffee shop where his beardy tattooed buddies were performing.   He seemed excited to have me tag along and introduced me to his friends, and also refused to let me pay for anything!  I know this may not seem like a big deal but it was huge considering all of the previous semen donors were either jobless and living with mom (I’m not kidding), or had a job but were still broke as fuck.  Of course his generosity and (what seemed like) genuine interest led to me extending an invitation to an adult slumber party at my house.    A part of me wanted to know if his theory was true so we did an experiment.  It was.  We were indeed a simmering cauldron of sweat and spit and sex knots (those massive entanglements of hair that form on the back of your head during intense missionary work.  This is why I’m not a missionary).

It didn’t stop after one night.  He invited me to brunch, he asked me to dinner, he bought me drinks in the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon, he showed me where he worked and proceeded to give me stuff he made.  He was even planning a trip with me to the mountains and to NY to see family!  I actually thought he liked me.  For once I didn’t feel like one of those single-use tubes of toothpaste United gives you when they cancel your flight and you have to spend the night in the Philadelphia airport, sleeping on your belongings so nothing gets jacked.

But then I made a mistake.  I told him I was “smitten”  as we were curled up naked in bed.  Apparently this was the incorrect word choice since “smitten” traveled into his ear canal and through his brain, where it was translated into “I love you more than life itself and I am now your girlfriend forever” or something along those lines.  That wasn’t what I meant at all.  I just meant that I was happy.  I feel the same way after I devour a bag of Cheetos and a delicious Diet Coke, or take a really satisfying shit after too much coffee.    He immediately became distant and uninterested as soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth.  He picked his jeans up from the floor and went into the bathroom.  And that was that.

I don’t handle rejection well, although you’d think I’d be better at it with all the years of practice as the “chubby comic relief friend” in high school and college.  We walked to the bar in silence.  Horrible awkward silence.  I wanted to cry at that moment but I was still sober enough to hold it in.  I’d soon fix that!

My typical bandaid for hurt feelings is a combination of alcohol, Xanax and throwing stuff across the room until I pass out.  So, I positioned myself at the bar and started medicating.  It only took an hour or so before the barrier broke and the tears started pushing their way past security.  I lost it in front of everyone.  And more importantly, in front of HIM.  I hate hate hate showing my hand.

I’m going to fast forward and skip the part where I dragged him into a booth and accused him of using me for the past week.  I was sobbing and dry heaving while snot bubbles formed at the tip of my puffy red nose.  I had just made a gigantic ass out of myself and I left the bar without telling anyone goodbye..I think. Well I know I left the bar but I’m not really sure how I left the bar.

The evening got real fuzzy after that.  Apparently I sent out some half-assed ‘cry for help’ messages to people I don’t normally text. I also failed to respond to phone calls or messages from one of my best friends who witnessed my very public and humiliating meltdown.  He became concerned, and rightfully so.  He too knows I can be a little dramatic and over-reactive in hurtful situations.

After calling and texting several times without a response, he and his roommate walked to my house and started beating on the door.  I didn’t answer.  Or maybe I did but then closed the door on them.  Honestly, I can’t remember any of it beyond what I was told a few days later, after being released from the fucking hospital, where I had to explain to not one, but three different psychiatrists that I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I just wanted to relax after a tough day.  Apparently swallowing 60 milligrams of alprazolam is technically a suicide attempt.  Who knew?

To Be Continued…

Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part III

“I slept with him so you don’t have to.  You’re welcome”

You know what’s even shadier than sleeping with 7-8  guys in 6 months?  Sleeping with 2 guys within a 24-hour period, and not showering or changing the sheets between the two.  What can I say, I’m classy.

I spent the first half of 2016 overindulging in “passions of the flesh,” which sounds far more poetic than “fucking my way through the bar,” or comparing my bedroom to a scene from Caligula, which is by the way a strong exaggerationGuys do this reckless shit all of the time and don’t catch heat for it, so I cloak my indiscretions under the guise of feminist sexual liberation because I’m a modern girl who says ‘cunt’ a lot.  A lot.   If I allow my actions to make me feel guilty about my wicked ways, then I’m submitting to the slut-shaming culture and letting social stigmas dictate my behavior…and when have I ever bowed down to societal expectations!  Okay, pretty much every day I show up to work in clothes instead of pajamas, or refrain from farting in public…but let’s pretend I’m a revolutionist for the next several paragraphs so I sound more heroic than whorish.

While I’m not exactly proud of my accomplishments in 2016,  I do want to make it clear that the only reason I feel slightly remorseful is because I still see most of these guys at the same corner bar on a weekly basis, and I feel confident in their knowledge of being Eskimo Brothers.  It can be a bit awkward sometimes.  I don’t necessarily imagine them gathering around the beer cooler to compare notes considering most of them were too drunk to take shorthand anyway.  I do however think about conversations I have with my lady friends…and we sure as shit compare fucking notes!  (And I mean this as in notes about fucking, not ‘fucking’ notes but literally fucking notes, kind of like Cliff Notes…feel me?)

Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, sleeping with all of those guys was pretty selfless of me. I wouldn’t go so far as to compare it to community service, but I took one (+6, maybe 7?) for the team, maybe even took it in the eye once. Okay, that didn’t happen but I did have several UTI’s which cost me co-pays and a slight drop in dignity.  I’m fairly certain the doctor at FastMed either thought I had a crush on him, or was lying about always peeing after sex.  Which I totally did by the way!

By the time summer arrived, I had made my way through most of the pack and was feeling a little blue…kind of like when you get to the last bite of a big-ass burrito and are sad because it’s almost over.   I had consumed a lot of calories but still wasn’t satisfied.  Maybe I should have had a Snickers instead of intercourse…maybe hunger was to blame for my careless decision-making?  Maybe I need to pause for a snack break right now because I can’t stop thinking about food.

Anyway, I had essentially sampled most everything on the limited menu except the one dish who was just too young for me to try, like veal.  Okay, he isn’t really too young because he’s over 25 but he is out of my league, so I just pretend he’s too young so I don’t feel so shitty about myself.   Things probably would have been just fine had I excused myself from the table (sorry, I’m just so hungry), but I let myself get caught up in the dessert tray.  On a side note: Does anyone remember when restaurants actually had a tray of foam “desserts” they’d use to showcase the goods? I stuck my finger in a butterscotch blondie at a Bennigan’s, thinking the foam would recover back to its original shape like a stress ball.  It didn’t.  The waiter jerked back the tray in disgust as if I had fingered his asshole.  I probably should have, or given him a stress ball.   

I know I’m getting a little carried away with the food references but what I’m trying to say is that I choked on some feelings, just like Mama Cass choked on a ham sandwich.  Yep, believe it or not, I have them…not ham sandwiches, feelings.  I have feelings!!

I wish I had ham sandwiches instead.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Get Your Sweaty Raisinettes off The Sidewalk

People who haven’t experienced deep depression and suicidal thoughts are lucky, and also intellectually inferior.

-Me

I was driving home from work last week when I was overcome with the urge to jerk the steering wheel sharply to the right, hoping for a fatal confrontation with the tree coming up in the next 100 feet.  I had enough clearance but auto accidents are so unpredictable.  There were cars behind me with plenty of time to slow down, but there were also cyclists, runners and speed-walkers upping their endorphins on the sidewalk.  I imagined the cars behind me desperately trying to stop and inadvertently taking out some of the pedestrians.

I probably would just end up as a disfigured eggplant anyway, stewing in my own shit at some assisted living home until my organs began shutting down one by one, like that time my cat licked anti-freeze leaking from our neighbor’s car. The pedestrians sweating it out on the sidewalk, who presumably still have a few fucks left to give judging by their bouncy gait and yearning to stay in shape, would be dead in my place. It didn’t seem like a plan with favorable consequences so I kept driving in my auto-piloted daze, hoping for an irresponsible texter to hit me head-on instead.

I feel as though I am sleepwalking through my life.  What can I do to avoid repeating the same uneventful and meaningless day over and over and over again?  This shit cycle never fucking ends.  I see no grand finale in sight unless I create it myself.  There’s nothing that distinguishes one day from the next anymore.  No upcoming vacations to get excited over or events to use as an excuse to buy something new.

It’s just this and nothing more.  I’ve never thought my existence was all that remarkable to begin with, but at least when I was enjoying myself 20% of the time, I could forget how miserable I was during the other 80%.  Now it’s more like a 2% to 98% ratio, and that’s not much of a carrot on a stick for me.   And I realize it’s my own fault for not seizing life by the wrinkled Raisinettes and drinking up the experiences, but I’m tired and drained.  Mostly just apathetic towards the whole damn thing I guess.

If a stranger looked at my life through some mid-priced binoculars then it would seem fairly satisfactory.  I have a kickass house with secret nooks and crannies, a bathroom with a stained-glass window and a patterned shower curtain ideal for hallucinogenics, a magical pet luck dragon, no major physical disabilities, entertaining top-shelf friends and a job that doesn’t require me to wear a name tag and a smile, although I do have to wear a security badge and mind my language…and also spend 9 hours of my day surrounded by mediocrity…but who doesn’t hate their job, really?   But if the stranger put down his binoculars and hung out with me for a day, peeling back the layers of insecurities and anxieties, then he’d probably want to leap off a cliff by the end of the day too.  Maybe he’d even offer to push me if I asked nicely??  Right now you might be wondering why the stranger is a male.  I don’t know, he just is.  And he looks a lot like Ryan Gosling.

The real message underlying this whiny discourse is that people who want to exercise outside should make use of the numerous parks we have here.  Yes, we do have bike lanes and sidewalks running along the city streets, but there might be someone wanting to purposely plow her Highlander into a tree.  All I ask is for these obnoxious fitness enthusiasts to stop being so selfish and fucking up my spontaneous suicide plans.  Your commitment to toned abs and winning the stupid HR fitness challenge at work is ruining my life!

I hope that fancy wicking fabric causes a rash.  Assholes.