I hate my phone. There, I said it. The little demon is also known as the Chocolate LG from Verizon, and there is a theory that the company puts out a shit phone to purposefully break down once every 9-11 months, thus forcing you to replace it or buy their insurance protection plan. Am I going to get sued because of this post? If anything, I should be suing them for the awkward moments their crappy products create. Unfortunately, these came out about a couple months before the iPhones made their way onto the scene, and since then have been stuck with pining after Apple's illustrious and newest technological whore until my 2 year contract ends (next month, FTW).
Apparently, I'm not the only one with phone problems. During a brief period a while back, a friend and I turned to each other for the only kind of intimacy a significant other allowed--without the attachment. Yes, we were friends with benefits. Eventually, both of us trailed off in different directions and we're still close friends, but during the intimate part of our friendship his phone (yes, a CHOCOLATE LG) decided it was just too good to keep private from our friends. It did this by, upon letting his phone ring during our...time...together, it redialed the caller back and he heard everything.
Friend: "Dude..were you guys...you know..."
Him: "Uh..why?"
Friend: "I heard it. Your phone called me."
Him: "Why didn't you hang up?"
Do you believe me now? Chocolate LG's should come with a "Do Not Have Sex Around Phone" warning. It's not the owner, it's the phone. And it SUCKS.
However, it is then when I am forced to make the conclusion that it is the people who own the iPhone who are responsible for all /handtoface&*shakeshead* reactions. Because the iPhone is not evil. It has a LIGHTSABER APPLICATION. I'm convinced any piece of technology associated with that amount of awesome simply cannot be a demon in any way, shape or form. Oh don't worry, there have been studies. Mainly my own, and really it's just "study", but that is besides the point.
Now, before you start saying something about iPhones just remember that these phones have OWNERS. Where the LG would do something without touch, the iPhone requires quite a bit of fingerplay in order to "act out", therefore the conclusion is that anything an iPhone does is the complete responsibility of it's handler.
I'm on OkCupid. "What in the bloody hell does that have to do with iPhones and LG sex?!" Now that I have you thoroughly confused, my "study" has to do with someone I went on a date with on the site that has an iPhone. This blog is also whored out on my profile, and he saw and sent me a message saying, "Man, I hope I don't make it on there!".
Liar. You want the attention. You want everyone to know that, after while a successful conversation during dinner, the moment you got into my car and we drove to meet up with my friends for Pub Trivia you started sifting through my glove compartment. When you pulled out three packs of empty Parliment Lights boxes, jokingly accused me of smoking after I told you I quit (I did, in August). When you pulled out and went through my cd collection, and the various pieces of trash I was too lazy to throw away. Or when you pulled out my giant box of tampons I keep in case of emergency. Because showing someone on a first date that you get your period is possibly one of the most romantic things you could do, ever, besides asking if you can go to browntown during dinner...before the appetizer comes out. It's like being polite and not telling everyone what you're going to the bathroom for--as far as I'm concerned, you're checking your makeup. Even the guys.
Now, this isn't to say that while I was totally embarrassed, that it killed my mood to retaliate. Oh no, I'm without shame here. Remember, this blog is about being fabulously awkward--them or me, doesn't matter--it's going to happen regardless.
Back to the point...OkCupid is a great site...kind of. The people who say that are only the ones who have had any luck in finding someone very special. My friend A decribes OkCupid as a place that makes finding someone feel like "finding a needle in a haystack. Only the haystack is made out of poop." In my journal I say that I'm not on there to find dates (which I'm really not), but I decided that one wouldn't hurt and I have nothing to lose because my dignity is long gone. While I'm a one-time OkC dater (okay, twice, but the second one isn't awkward, he's funny in that "you had to be there" way...and I can't tell stories as it is so yeah), but it seems as if this guy...isn't.
But I started going through his phone to get back at him for going through my glove compartment. By this point I wasn't really interested in a second date anyways, but seeing "[insert name] OkCupid" more than once on his address book list was a tad weird. So he's an OkC manwhore...which I can respect only because I'm not dating him. Then I saw a text message conversation about him and this girl going to a bar the next day for a date, and I started offering my suggestions. My girlfriend at the Pub Trivia with us, AC, was absolutely mortified. What?! This is normal for me! I can go through people's personal things if a) I don't care for going on a date with them again or b) they went through my stuff. Or c), which is both and in that case all ethics go out the window.
I thought this might end here. Oh no...the next day, I got a text saying "Hola! Can't wait for tonight!" and then a second one that said..."Whoops, wrong person!"
Kind of reminds me of that time my friend went on a date with a guy who called her accidentally the next day and left a 20 minute long voice message calling me a whore and telling his friend they had sex when they didn't. Want to read about it?
http://datingismiserable.com/?p=3
Be sure to listen to the voicemail too. Congratulationsyouareadouche. :D
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
I might be Irish, but I can't hold my liquor
One of these days I'm going to learn that my personality + alcohol don't mix in a group of more than one person (myself). While becoming an alcoholic usually means you're by yourself, I'm sure more than most of the people I have been around will agree that it's something I should do more often because of my potential behavior. I don't warn new friends, dates, or anyone else for that matter, because it's just something that simply happens.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Since the power of t3h internetz is so awesome, it was during this short alcoholic period of my life that I could meet and hang out with new people all the time (through Yelp events)--thus ensuring that yes, I could afford to lose some future friends, potential soul mates, etc. Just call me the Queen of Good Ideas. And Bad Sarcasm.
Anyways, onto where I make myself look like a complete ass.
The way I met my ex was through a certain website. No, it's not a dating website, but for all the people that hook up through it, may as well should be. They were holding a charity event, and being the materialistic consumer-whore Generation X has raised, I decided on going with someone who had a motorcycle. Surprisingly enough, he said that he would pay for my ticket, and that we would go to dinner before hand--make it feel like prom really happened (I never went to mine). Throughout the month and a half that would tranverse before the event actually took place, I would regale my friends with just how creepy his picture was, and that I should back out at the last minute, and that I'm probably going to end up as a severed head in his fridge.
Per usual, I was late in showing up at his doorstep. Most the tardiness came from a lack of caring whether or not we even got to the event at all (hell, I didn't pay for anything), and the other part was just me too scared to think about the prospect of being "shown" his private knife collection (which he has...but not for that). Unfortunately for me, the moment I stepped out of the cab and he opened the door to his apartment complex...I fell instantly in lust for this man. Standing in a Hugo Boss black suit with a tie and dress shoes, looking so sharp and handsome that I stood completely dumbfounded in the doorway. My jaw just hung there like...well, like gravity is a bitch and this is really awkward.
Since we were riding on a motorcycle across, of all things dangerous, the Bay Bridge, we limited ourselves to one glass of wine during our very lengthy dinner. During our meal, I picked up right where I left off on the awkward (1. Getting on the motorcycle and saying, "Oh yeah, I love motorcycles, used to have my ex f**k me with his helmet on." Did I need to say that? No). Also, look--just because a guy is good looking, doesn't mean he's gay. Believe me, I tried convincing him he was for two hours during dinner (awkward moment #2).
When we arrived at the event itself, I was not only hot and sweaty from wearing the required garments and carrying all our stuff to put down somewhere, but someone I had just stopped seeing was there as well (awkward moment #3--although he continues to deny to this day that we were seeing each other, only because apparently it doesn't count if we didn't engage in any relations). In an effort to create more tension, I did what any normal petty 21 year old would do--I flirted with my date. A lot. So much so that by the end of the evening, I was sober and feeling very...nervous. Just nervous in general--about saying the wrong thing, about stepping on his feet during a dance, or hell, even just nervous about being on the back of the bike. Either way, by the time we got back to the apartment, I was ready to drink.
Do you know what a bad idea is? To combine anxiety and liquor. I would know--the ex and I dated for a few months, and the feeling never subsided until it was over. Not only did this anxiety prevent me from eating too much, but it also prevented my body from actually absorbing any nutritional content to be used for later in soaking up the liquid effervescent served later on that evening.
He handed me a glass of champagne. I downed it. He handed me the second one. I downed it.
Then I woke up, it was 8am and I was just wearing my underwear.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
This is what supposedly happened when I blacked out (for the first time in my life):
I passed out on his bed, because that's what alcohol does to me. Waking up at 3am to use the bathroom downstairs, as I was trying to get up I accidentally pulled myself up by a very lightweighted storage shelf that looks similar to this. Needless to say, it came crashing down, along with everything on it (including a glass candle holder that shattered into a million pieces).
As he came rushing downstairs after being jerked from his sleep, he saw as I was walking very slowly, with my hands up to my mouth and eyes wider than ever.
"Are you okay??"
Without responding, I slumped up against the wall (it was a narrow hallway), and slid past him as if he couldn't see me. Apparently, being drunk also means I act like a 4 year old. When I made it back into bed, he tried putting pajamas on me, but I absolutely refused (once again, acting like a 4 year old). Also, we had a hardcore make out session.
I don't remember any of this.
Waking up the next morning, I sat up in bed and had no idea where my clothes went. How did I get here!? What the hell happened last night!? Did we do anything!? No, thank goodness.
Because I'm classy like that.
...
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
*sigh*
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Since the power of t3h internetz is so awesome, it was during this short alcoholic period of my life that I could meet and hang out with new people all the time (through Yelp events)--thus ensuring that yes, I could afford to lose some future friends, potential soul mates, etc. Just call me the Queen of Good Ideas. And Bad Sarcasm.
Anyways, onto where I make myself look like a complete ass.
The way I met my ex was through a certain website. No, it's not a dating website, but for all the people that hook up through it, may as well should be. They were holding a charity event, and being the materialistic consumer-whore Generation X has raised, I decided on going with someone who had a motorcycle. Surprisingly enough, he said that he would pay for my ticket, and that we would go to dinner before hand--make it feel like prom really happened (I never went to mine). Throughout the month and a half that would tranverse before the event actually took place, I would regale my friends with just how creepy his picture was, and that I should back out at the last minute, and that I'm probably going to end up as a severed head in his fridge.
Per usual, I was late in showing up at his doorstep. Most the tardiness came from a lack of caring whether or not we even got to the event at all (hell, I didn't pay for anything), and the other part was just me too scared to think about the prospect of being "shown" his private knife collection (which he has...but not for that). Unfortunately for me, the moment I stepped out of the cab and he opened the door to his apartment complex...I fell instantly in lust for this man. Standing in a Hugo Boss black suit with a tie and dress shoes, looking so sharp and handsome that I stood completely dumbfounded in the doorway. My jaw just hung there like...well, like gravity is a bitch and this is really awkward.
Since we were riding on a motorcycle across, of all things dangerous, the Bay Bridge, we limited ourselves to one glass of wine during our very lengthy dinner. During our meal, I picked up right where I left off on the awkward (1. Getting on the motorcycle and saying, "Oh yeah, I love motorcycles, used to have my ex f**k me with his helmet on." Did I need to say that? No). Also, look--just because a guy is good looking, doesn't mean he's gay. Believe me, I tried convincing him he was for two hours during dinner (awkward moment #2).
When we arrived at the event itself, I was not only hot and sweaty from wearing the required garments and carrying all our stuff to put down somewhere, but someone I had just stopped seeing was there as well (awkward moment #3--although he continues to deny to this day that we were seeing each other, only because apparently it doesn't count if we didn't engage in any relations). In an effort to create more tension, I did what any normal petty 21 year old would do--I flirted with my date. A lot. So much so that by the end of the evening, I was sober and feeling very...nervous. Just nervous in general--about saying the wrong thing, about stepping on his feet during a dance, or hell, even just nervous about being on the back of the bike. Either way, by the time we got back to the apartment, I was ready to drink.
Do you know what a bad idea is? To combine anxiety and liquor. I would know--the ex and I dated for a few months, and the feeling never subsided until it was over. Not only did this anxiety prevent me from eating too much, but it also prevented my body from actually absorbing any nutritional content to be used for later in soaking up the liquid effervescent served later on that evening.
He handed me a glass of champagne. I downed it. He handed me the second one. I downed it.
Then I woke up, it was 8am and I was just wearing my underwear.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
This is what supposedly happened when I blacked out (for the first time in my life):
I passed out on his bed, because that's what alcohol does to me. Waking up at 3am to use the bathroom downstairs, as I was trying to get up I accidentally pulled myself up by a very lightweighted storage shelf that looks similar to this. Needless to say, it came crashing down, along with everything on it (including a glass candle holder that shattered into a million pieces).
As he came rushing downstairs after being jerked from his sleep, he saw as I was walking very slowly, with my hands up to my mouth and eyes wider than ever.
"Are you okay??"
Without responding, I slumped up against the wall (it was a narrow hallway), and slid past him as if he couldn't see me. Apparently, being drunk also means I act like a 4 year old. When I made it back into bed, he tried putting pajamas on me, but I absolutely refused (once again, acting like a 4 year old). Also, we had a hardcore make out session.
I don't remember any of this.
Waking up the next morning, I sat up in bed and had no idea where my clothes went. How did I get here!? What the hell happened last night!? Did we do anything!? No, thank goodness.
Because I'm classy like that.
...
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
*sigh*
Thursday, October 16, 2008
friends don't leave friends behind with their other friends
I firmly believe in the whole "reaction to every action" theory out there. I say this because it seems as though whenever I suddenly become single, my dating life transforms into this major awkward hell-fire before settling down again. Having been in [any] previous relationship that allowed for you to be yourself, it's a bit hard to stay mysterious for the lucky first few dates you go on. I'm sure there are plenty of men out there who still refer to me as "that crazy bitch who made everything really weird".
Fortunately for me, they invented this magical elixir called Alcohol. This nectar of the Gods is able to take every strange moment and make it not only funny, but completely forgettable the next morning. UNfortunately, it's only forgettable to some, and regrettable for the rest.
Take, for instance, the night my ex and I broke up. After having been told that it was over, I called AC and she told me to come to R Bar in the tendernob-hill area for some warm, fuzzy liquid feelings to perk me back up. I have to say--this bar has to be one of my favorites in the City, despite having only been once. Not only did the bartender serve me drinks right as I was finished without asking, but they played the song, "Damn it feels good to be a Gangsta". Oh yes, yes it did.
Turns out my new single status wasn't the only thing to be celebrated, but also the birthday of AC's long-time friend, Z. After passing on the disgusting fernet shots she pushed in front of me, I was suddenly made aware that Z was Jewish.
Jewish, you say? You're kidding! When you have two Jews meet who are consistently surrounded by either atheists or christans/catholics (or raised as such), suddenly every single inside joke starts to come out. The guilt. The gefilte fish at Passover. The free trip to Israel (neither of us had taken it). We sat there and laughed our asses off for what felt like hours, both of us screaming out we had been "cheated" out of approximately 4,000 dollars and a computer every other Jewish kid our age got when they had their bar/bat mitzvah (neither of us had one).
It was at that point that AC mentioned she wanted to leave, and Z wanted to show us the new apartment two doors down he had just scored. Paying the tab and leaving, going up the elevator and into the door of his (very) small 1 bedroom apartment (/studio?), we were given the "grand" tour.
Out of nowhere, AC decides she wants to leave. I'm absolutely smashed but still coherent, and Z was obliterated. Apparently, when you drink your mind moves about half the pace it normally does. I know this because in the time that it took my brain to process AC was leaving, she had already gone out the door, down the stairs, and Z made a furious move on me. It was like he was attacking me with his mouth, and not the pleasant kind.
I kept stopping him. "You know, we should...:smooch: probably not...:smooch:...cause you know...:smooch:...just broken...:smooch:...my..ex...:smooch:..." I swear this lasted at least a good 15 minutes.
Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore and jerked up in bed, grabbed my purse, yelling "I have to go! Sorry! I'm really sorry! This is really awkward, I'm sorry!"
I ran to my car, started bawling and didn't leave until I started sobering up. Actually, I think I was pretty fucking sober by this point, and I'm pretty sure that crying just allows alcohol to eject itself from your tearducts or something.
Last weekend I was at the kareoke bar in Nob Hill (see first entry), and I turn around to see Z passing me.
AC: "Do you remember her? The makeout/freakout in your apartment a few months ago?"
Z: "I don't remember going to that bar, actually."
...
Off the hook!
Note to self: make sure if you go out with AC's friends, that no one is having a birthday. It seems as though I end up making out with the birthday boy almost every single time (2 out of 3). Stop using me, or at least buy me a drink!
Fortunately for me, they invented this magical elixir called Alcohol. This nectar of the Gods is able to take every strange moment and make it not only funny, but completely forgettable the next morning. UNfortunately, it's only forgettable to some, and regrettable for the rest.
Take, for instance, the night my ex and I broke up. After having been told that it was over, I called AC and she told me to come to R Bar in the tendernob-hill area for some warm, fuzzy liquid feelings to perk me back up. I have to say--this bar has to be one of my favorites in the City, despite having only been once. Not only did the bartender serve me drinks right as I was finished without asking, but they played the song, "Damn it feels good to be a Gangsta". Oh yes, yes it did.
Turns out my new single status wasn't the only thing to be celebrated, but also the birthday of AC's long-time friend, Z. After passing on the disgusting fernet shots she pushed in front of me, I was suddenly made aware that Z was Jewish.
Jewish, you say? You're kidding! When you have two Jews meet who are consistently surrounded by either atheists or christans/catholics (or raised as such), suddenly every single inside joke starts to come out. The guilt. The gefilte fish at Passover. The free trip to Israel (neither of us had taken it). We sat there and laughed our asses off for what felt like hours, both of us screaming out we had been "cheated" out of approximately 4,000 dollars and a computer every other Jewish kid our age got when they had their bar/bat mitzvah (neither of us had one).
It was at that point that AC mentioned she wanted to leave, and Z wanted to show us the new apartment two doors down he had just scored. Paying the tab and leaving, going up the elevator and into the door of his (very) small 1 bedroom apartment (/studio?), we were given the "grand" tour.
Out of nowhere, AC decides she wants to leave. I'm absolutely smashed but still coherent, and Z was obliterated. Apparently, when you drink your mind moves about half the pace it normally does. I know this because in the time that it took my brain to process AC was leaving, she had already gone out the door, down the stairs, and Z made a furious move on me. It was like he was attacking me with his mouth, and not the pleasant kind.
I kept stopping him. "You know, we should...:smooch: probably not...:smooch:...cause you know...:smooch:...just broken...:smooch:...my..ex...:smooch:..." I swear this lasted at least a good 15 minutes.
Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore and jerked up in bed, grabbed my purse, yelling "I have to go! Sorry! I'm really sorry! This is really awkward, I'm sorry!"
I ran to my car, started bawling and didn't leave until I started sobering up. Actually, I think I was pretty fucking sober by this point, and I'm pretty sure that crying just allows alcohol to eject itself from your tearducts or something.
Last weekend I was at the kareoke bar in Nob Hill (see first entry), and I turn around to see Z passing me.
AC: "Do you remember her? The makeout/freakout in your apartment a few months ago?"
Z: "I don't remember going to that bar, actually."
...
Off the hook!
Note to self: make sure if you go out with AC's friends, that no one is having a birthday. It seems as though I end up making out with the birthday boy almost every single time (2 out of 3). Stop using me, or at least buy me a drink!
Monday, October 13, 2008
the way to my heart is through my therapist
These days, everything is a joke to me. No matter how weird, un-amusing, un-funny, awkward the jokes are, more than likely I have either a) made them, or b) laughed at them. Oh, I'm sorry--we're you being serious about that? Let me just finish laughing...
This has created some awkward moments, in all aspects of my life. However, there are some ground rules as to what taboo topics are fine and which are off limits.
Okay topics:
This has created some awkward moments, in all aspects of my life. However, there are some ground rules as to what taboo topics are fine and which are off limits.
Okay topics:
- Racism. Don't lie, you think it's hilarious even if you don't mean it.
- Sexism. Last night I said to my straight-gay boyfriend (SGB) after he told me my makeup gave me the "two black eyes" look--"Nothing no one has already told me twice!"
- Hipsters. No explanation needed.
- Frat boys and the sluts who sleep with them.
- Me. (no, I'm not under the "sluts" category, assholes. But you can joke that I am)
The list can go on and on, but I don't want to paint this picture that I'm some excessively bigoted individual, because I'm not. I just know when to have a sense of humor. But there are very few topics that are totally off-limits to me:
- Anything about God and Jesus. You can make the joke, but I sure as hell am not going to laugh at it. There is a backstory that I'll spare you of, but just know that it involves a sudden burst of wind knocking over a gigantic branch that landed right where I was standing not 2 seconds before.
- Anything about the Holocaust. Say what you want about big noses (if all my Jewish exes have, then you can too), but the Holocaust is out.
- My therapist.
"Wait...what?"
Yes, my therapist. You are not allowed to poke fun, hint at, or even seriously put down my therapist or the decisions I make based on the (expensive) discussions I have had with him. Unfortunately, there was a date who just didn't get that.
Enter: Pink Shirt Guy. I named him that because on our first date, he wore a stripped pink collared shirt and popped it. He might have just been wearing this. I'm all for that kind of thing if it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month (October, go support!), but it was July and that shit just doesn't fly with me.
For our third date (surprised it lasted that long), he took me to a nice restaurant on the Peninsula that served less-than-average "Italian" food. Having just finished a photo shoot for a friend, I was tired as hell and just wanted to go to sleep. It sounds a tad trashy to be complaining about being taken out to a nice dinner, but in all honesty the only reason I accepted was because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Am I bragging? No. It was just clear that we weren't compatible, and he wasn't getting it, and I'm a nice (but stupid) person.
Halfway into the dinner, we started to divulge in the reason why I was trying to push him away--because I just wasn't ready for a relationship. Yes, it wasn't just about incompatibility, but also my heart was broken and the wound was still fresh. How do you explain that to someone you've been on three dates with? First of all, you don't. Second of all, you stop going on dates with him! Learn how to say no! Also, get a therapist (and actually listen to him).
"Look, I really appreciate everything, Pink Shirt Guy, but really, I just don't think I'm ready to go any further with this." (further than what? We made out. Once. Wooooo...)
"Is that what your therapist said?"
"It's something that, through many discussions, I have decided is the best idea for me to do right now."
"Alright, well you know the reason why he told you that right? So he could sleep with you."
...
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
"Wait, wait--what did you just say? So he could sleep with me? He has no interest in me! Why am I even explaining this to you!?"
Then I ordered the most expensive dessert out of spite, sat dumbfounded, and he just continued on with his theory about how my therapist wants to sleep with me.
Once we got outside, I fumbled around for my pack of cigarettes, handed him one (he smoked, but never inhaled), and smoked furiously for the next 5 minutes. As he kept inching closer and closer to kiss me, I finally blurted out:
"Stop. Right there. Just, stop. I don't feel like being close to anyone right now. Very...uh...claustrophobic...right now. Yeah."
The next week he tried texting me to come over (he said he was "done with dinners, let's get drunk at my place so I can roofie your drink". Okay, I made that roofie part up, but I'm sure he was going to do it). I told him I was busy and never heard from him again.
Then I fooled around with my therapist.
KIDDING.
no, please, keep staring at my chest.
"So, I..uh...heard you recycle boys.", he said to me as our conversation came to a standstill. Already two minutes into drinks at a kareoke bar in Nob Hill, and I was already regretting being set up by two mutual friends of ours. I just stood there, thanking the diety I believe in that the bar was not only dark, but loud as hell so he couldn't hear me mumbling, "Oh. My. God."
To be fair, I was wearing a t-shirt from Pier 39 that had, "I *insert recycling symbol here* BOYS" plastered across my chest. It was 15 dollars and supposed to be a joke. Plus, I hadn't been home since Friday morning and ran out of clean clothes to wear. However, in no way should this have precipitated anything more than a reason to make a quick glance at my chest.
The night started out routine, in where I arrive, pay for my own first drink and hope that the alcohol I consumed pre-bar kicks in and spending 6.50 for a crappy vodka & tonic would be justified. Standing with a group of friends and awaiting my turn to sing, this tall gentlemen kept looking in my direction. Fine, it's nice to be stared at sometimes. Then AC comes up and mentions how he is the roommate of a friend of hers, and would I like to be fixed up. "You know what, he's tall, I'll give it a shot" (fact: I love tall men, preferably 6'3'' to 6'6'').
Note to self: when your friends offer something nice like that, make sure they aren't drunk, because mine were. I was led to the bar in a non-discreet fashion, and suddenly Tall Guy appears and offers a drink. Do you turn down free drinks? No, it's just rude. Just as he was about to strike up a conversation (I think we got to introducing ourselves), my song came on. It is widely known that "my song" to sing in kareoke bars is "All I Want for Christmas is You", by Mariah Carey. I can't hit the high notes, and I have the lung capacity of an 80 year old man who has been smoking 2 packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day his whole life, but it's still my favorite song until Christmas actually rolls around.
The moment I got off the stage, admist obligatory praise from my friends (don't worry, I love it), he acts as if I could have been Mariah Carey herself. Really? Gee...thanks. I'm just going to walk...over here now. Oh, shots at the bar courtesy of your roommate? Anything to keep me in this conversation, sure why not.
We slam down our shots, and that is when the turtle walked into the bar and everyone waited for it to crawl to the other side of the room. How do you respond to that? How!? "Um, yeah, I'm a total slut. See? I bought the t-shirt to prove it". It might have been in bad taste to buy in the first place, but putting a cherry on top of the awkward sundae is just a no-no. Thankfully, my friends decided a few minutes later that they wanted to leave, and I sprinted out the door. He called me the next day, and set up a sushi date. At the suggestion of my therapist, I broke it off and told him it just wasn't a good time for me. (Fact: Yes, I have a therapist. You don't honestly believe I get through these awkward moments without some mental health checkups, do you?)
Look- there are very few times when a funny tshirt is acceptable to point out. For example, I wore a shirt based on this comic, and I walked around Fry's Electronics just waiting for someone to hit on me. It didn't matter if there was any interest--I just wanted to attract nerds so I could have something to talk about. If your shirt has a punchline designed for a specific interest group, inevitably, you're going to find someone who comes up to you and strikes up a conversation. Like with my shirt: from there we'd able to branch out into different distros, html codes, then to arguing who hates Vista more...and eventually, we will have had a great chat, and in the end at least we made a new friend.
If you are wearing something like this, then rest assured you are getting a fake number. What legend? World's Smallest Penis? Do you have tiny hands, is that why it looks so big to you? WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT!?
It goes without saying that the shirts you find in Pac Sun, Hollister, Hot Topic, et al, are truly unacceptable for anyplace other than the frat house. We are all grown-up now, kiddies, and it's about time we stop wearing shirts that say "Tastes like Chicken" on it. We all know what it tastes like, thanks for sharing.
Thankfully, there are places out there on t3h internetz that are designed to help the fashion-challenged graduate into adults. One site in particular is run by a very good friend of mine, Karl. Not only does he have a site completely devoted to awesome shirts, but he also loves all things Star Wars and has traveled all over the world. Oh, and he's British. And single. Go buy one of his shirts, and then go forth into the dating world.
I've never been able to end these things at all clever, so uh...
wow this is awkward.
...
To be fair, I was wearing a t-shirt from Pier 39 that had, "I *insert recycling symbol here* BOYS" plastered across my chest. It was 15 dollars and supposed to be a joke. Plus, I hadn't been home since Friday morning and ran out of clean clothes to wear. However, in no way should this have precipitated anything more than a reason to make a quick glance at my chest.
The night started out routine, in where I arrive, pay for my own first drink and hope that the alcohol I consumed pre-bar kicks in and spending 6.50 for a crappy vodka & tonic would be justified. Standing with a group of friends and awaiting my turn to sing, this tall gentlemen kept looking in my direction. Fine, it's nice to be stared at sometimes. Then AC comes up and mentions how he is the roommate of a friend of hers, and would I like to be fixed up. "You know what, he's tall, I'll give it a shot" (fact: I love tall men, preferably 6'3'' to 6'6'').
Note to self: when your friends offer something nice like that, make sure they aren't drunk, because mine were. I was led to the bar in a non-discreet fashion, and suddenly Tall Guy appears and offers a drink. Do you turn down free drinks? No, it's just rude. Just as he was about to strike up a conversation (I think we got to introducing ourselves), my song came on. It is widely known that "my song" to sing in kareoke bars is "All I Want for Christmas is You", by Mariah Carey. I can't hit the high notes, and I have the lung capacity of an 80 year old man who has been smoking 2 packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day his whole life, but it's still my favorite song until Christmas actually rolls around.
The moment I got off the stage, admist obligatory praise from my friends (don't worry, I love it), he acts as if I could have been Mariah Carey herself. Really? Gee...thanks. I'm just going to walk...over here now. Oh, shots at the bar courtesy of your roommate? Anything to keep me in this conversation, sure why not.
We slam down our shots, and that is when the turtle walked into the bar and everyone waited for it to crawl to the other side of the room. How do you respond to that? How!? "Um, yeah, I'm a total slut. See? I bought the t-shirt to prove it". It might have been in bad taste to buy in the first place, but putting a cherry on top of the awkward sundae is just a no-no. Thankfully, my friends decided a few minutes later that they wanted to leave, and I sprinted out the door. He called me the next day, and set up a sushi date. At the suggestion of my therapist, I broke it off and told him it just wasn't a good time for me. (Fact: Yes, I have a therapist. You don't honestly believe I get through these awkward moments without some mental health checkups, do you?)
Look- there are very few times when a funny tshirt is acceptable to point out. For example, I wore a shirt based on this comic, and I walked around Fry's Electronics just waiting for someone to hit on me. It didn't matter if there was any interest--I just wanted to attract nerds so I could have something to talk about. If your shirt has a punchline designed for a specific interest group, inevitably, you're going to find someone who comes up to you and strikes up a conversation. Like with my shirt: from there we'd able to branch out into different distros, html codes, then to arguing who hates Vista more...and eventually, we will have had a great chat, and in the end at least we made a new friend.
If you are wearing something like this, then rest assured you are getting a fake number. What legend? World's Smallest Penis? Do you have tiny hands, is that why it looks so big to you? WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT!?
It goes without saying that the shirts you find in Pac Sun, Hollister, Hot Topic, et al, are truly unacceptable for anyplace other than the frat house. We are all grown-up now, kiddies, and it's about time we stop wearing shirts that say "Tastes like Chicken" on it. We all know what it tastes like, thanks for sharing.
Thankfully, there are places out there on t3h internetz that are designed to help the fashion-challenged graduate into adults. One site in particular is run by a very good friend of mine, Karl. Not only does he have a site completely devoted to awesome shirts, but he also loves all things Star Wars and has traveled all over the world. Oh, and he's British. And single. Go buy one of his shirts, and then go forth into the dating world.
I've never been able to end these things at all clever, so uh...
wow this is awkward.
...
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