I just deleted Douchebag's name and number from my cell phone. I deleted him from my instant messenger friend's list, too. I'm over the games that he's playing. If he contacts me again, then so be it, I'll handle it then, but I don't really feel that will be a problem. I'm just pissed. I feel like an asshole for nothing. Well, almost nothing. It's obvious that I was used, but what's worse is that I convinced myself that I wasn't. I convinced myself that it was the set-up that I wanted and it was me who was making the call on what Douchebag and I would be. Well my friends, that was not the case. He chose when and where and I slid by and let it happen. The good news is that it never went far and I've spared myself what would probably have been a terrible mistake.
Does it sound juvenile saying that I'm so glad I didn't sleep with him? I feel stretched between the point of adolescence and adulthood. It's like straddling a state line and not knowing which way you're supposed to go. It seems almost ridiculous to call myself an adult, but I'll be twenty-one in a matter of six weeks and able to do everything that a legal adult can do, but I just don't feel like an adult. Wasn't everything in my life supposed to be worked out by now? Shouldn't I be in a relationship with a person that I can see myself with in the future instead of just goofing around with my "love" life? Am I supposed to be able to realistically survey my life thus far and feel good about or even comfortable with the notion of the impending future and thus the "real world" by now?
The real reason that I'm upset about douchebag is not because of the rejection I feel, but because of the way in which it happened. I, for once, did not play games with him. I talked honestly with him and felt he was being honest with me in regards to what he wanted from me. I can rationalize his lie about not coming over, which he chalked up to me not contacting him (see previous posts) but I can't rationalize his fraudulent friendship.
"You're one of the few people I won't be a dick to. I want to be an asshole to everyone because of what happened to me, but there's a few people I won't do that to, and you're one of them." He actually said that. What happened to him, you ask? He went away to school for college and his girlfriend back in high school cheated on him. A lot. Hell, we've all been cheated on or betrayed by someone, haven't we? This doesn't excuse treating someone, especially someone who you consider a friend, like a dipshit.
I fell for it. I fell for his occasional sweetness, using those brief occurances to negate all his poor behavior. Well, lesson learned. I'll be bitter about it for a day or two, but honestly it wasn't like I could see this going anywhere in the long-term. At least I know I give great head...
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
It's a mistake that I'm clearly making.
I can't stop. I know I should, but when I try, it never lasts. I texted Douchebag..you can virtually punch me in the forehead because I totally deserve it. I didn't say what I wanted to say, or even what I should have said. I can't say what I want to say because I'm too afraid. Some part of me is reasoning that whatever I get from him is better than nothing, but the other more reasonable part of me is shaking her head and tapping her stiletto pumps in knowing.
"I need to get off...talk dirty to me?" That's what I said. What I really wanted to say was, "What the fuck is your problem? Are you bi-polar? If you are, it's cool, just let me know so I don't feel like an asshole when you reject me for the 78308356th time. "
"Let me hear you talk dirty," he said. No. That's not what I wanted. I wanted you to do all the talking so that I could for one second pretend like I could rely on you for something.
"This wouldn't be a problem if you had come over the other day."
"You never called." Oh, no. No. No. No. He didn't go there. He really didn't. I'm pretty sure I sent you a text to leave your house at 8:30....oh wait, I just checked my sent messages, I definitely sent you a text saying that. That doesn't even piss me off anymore, whatever.
"Umm...I sent you a text, but whatever. You can make it happen next time you wanna come over," I said, attempting to diffuse the situation that I got myself into. He didn't respond for a good ten minutes, so I sent him a version of what I really wanted to originally say.
"If you don't wanna hook up, it's cool. Just let me know so I can stop trying and shit," I shook my head after I hit send because I wanted to barf at how I was acting. I'm not this girl. I'm not this desperate piece of ass that gets attached like this. I'm confident and I'm intelligent and I'm independent. And I'm lying if I say that he didn't get to me. He gets to me because I let him and because I make up excuses for the shit he does and blame it on how bad I want him sexually. I know I do this, but I can't break away. I'll tell myself that I won't text him or call him or leave a very cliche away message that is obviously meant for him. But, I will. Probably.
"I already did hook up with you. Why would I want to stop? I was waiting on you," he replied. Really? Because I'm pretty sure I told you to come over and fuck me, but it didn't happen. I wanted to ask him if he was afraid of something, but I didn't. I lied earlier when I said I was confident, I guess. I'm confident in some ways, but definitely not in all ways. Give me a dick and I'll be the closest thing to Jenna Jameson that you'll probably ever get. Give me emotions and I'm a sucker who immediately looks for the closest and easiest escape.
"Well...there's no waiting on my part. You can come over whenever you wanna," I told him. Fuck, that was terrible. Wasn't that terrible? I forgot that he didn't respond because I was masturbating. I had a hard time making myself come that night. It finally happened but I didn't feel any release. I just got instantly horny again after my clit regained its relative consciousness. He never responded and I don't know what to do. Scratch that, I know there's nothing I could do. I can't make him want me. I'm kind of tired of trying. How many ways does a girl have to tell you that she WILL fuck you if you come over?
Maybe that's why he's not coming over. Am I putting too much pressure on him to have sex? I mean, we don't have to have sex, but....okay, well, I'd like to so I can get it out of my system. Maybe I'm scaring him away. Maybe he can't handle me. But if that was the case, why wouldn't he just tell me that he doesn't want to hook up. I gave him the opening for it. I thought I was doing the right thing by not playing these coy, high school games of cat and mouse. Maybe I should tease him, not guarantee him the fantasticness of my sensuality. Is it really coming to that, this game playing? Why can't two adults just bang and if it goes well, set something up to further the relationship?
Too many questions, I know. There's no real answer to any question in life. There's only philosophizing the realities in life. I can reason my way out of feeling rejected by his flaws, but what if it's because of mine?
"I need to get off...talk dirty to me?" That's what I said. What I really wanted to say was, "What the fuck is your problem? Are you bi-polar? If you are, it's cool, just let me know so I don't feel like an asshole when you reject me for the 78308356th time. "
"Let me hear you talk dirty," he said. No. That's not what I wanted. I wanted you to do all the talking so that I could for one second pretend like I could rely on you for something.
"This wouldn't be a problem if you had come over the other day."
"You never called." Oh, no. No. No. No. He didn't go there. He really didn't. I'm pretty sure I sent you a text to leave your house at 8:30....oh wait, I just checked my sent messages, I definitely sent you a text saying that. That doesn't even piss me off anymore, whatever.
"Umm...I sent you a text, but whatever. You can make it happen next time you wanna come over," I said, attempting to diffuse the situation that I got myself into. He didn't respond for a good ten minutes, so I sent him a version of what I really wanted to originally say.
"If you don't wanna hook up, it's cool. Just let me know so I can stop trying and shit," I shook my head after I hit send because I wanted to barf at how I was acting. I'm not this girl. I'm not this desperate piece of ass that gets attached like this. I'm confident and I'm intelligent and I'm independent. And I'm lying if I say that he didn't get to me. He gets to me because I let him and because I make up excuses for the shit he does and blame it on how bad I want him sexually. I know I do this, but I can't break away. I'll tell myself that I won't text him or call him or leave a very cliche away message that is obviously meant for him. But, I will. Probably.
"I already did hook up with you. Why would I want to stop? I was waiting on you," he replied. Really? Because I'm pretty sure I told you to come over and fuck me, but it didn't happen. I wanted to ask him if he was afraid of something, but I didn't. I lied earlier when I said I was confident, I guess. I'm confident in some ways, but definitely not in all ways. Give me a dick and I'll be the closest thing to Jenna Jameson that you'll probably ever get. Give me emotions and I'm a sucker who immediately looks for the closest and easiest escape.
"Well...there's no waiting on my part. You can come over whenever you wanna," I told him. Fuck, that was terrible. Wasn't that terrible? I forgot that he didn't respond because I was masturbating. I had a hard time making myself come that night. It finally happened but I didn't feel any release. I just got instantly horny again after my clit regained its relative consciousness. He never responded and I don't know what to do. Scratch that, I know there's nothing I could do. I can't make him want me. I'm kind of tired of trying. How many ways does a girl have to tell you that she WILL fuck you if you come over?
Maybe that's why he's not coming over. Am I putting too much pressure on him to have sex? I mean, we don't have to have sex, but....okay, well, I'd like to so I can get it out of my system. Maybe I'm scaring him away. Maybe he can't handle me. But if that was the case, why wouldn't he just tell me that he doesn't want to hook up. I gave him the opening for it. I thought I was doing the right thing by not playing these coy, high school games of cat and mouse. Maybe I should tease him, not guarantee him the fantasticness of my sensuality. Is it really coming to that, this game playing? Why can't two adults just bang and if it goes well, set something up to further the relationship?
Too many questions, I know. There's no real answer to any question in life. There's only philosophizing the realities in life. I can reason my way out of feeling rejected by his flaws, but what if it's because of mine?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Thanks, Mommy Dearest.
My mother is concerned that I'm not getting laid. If that didn't surprise you, just you wait and read the stories I am about to tell you.
When I was fifteen, I tore my MCL during a basketball game. I was a point guard (I mean, does it surprise you that I needed to be in control of the ball? Didn't think so) and I stupidly got caught in a trap along the sideline. Unfortunately, none of my teammates came to the ball to help, so I tried to maneuver my way out of it by doing a crossover dribble. I tried to slide around the defender, and it almost worked, except my right foot was caught with her left foot, causing my knee to move, but not my foot, resulting in the worst physical pain that I've ever felt.
I received an immobilizer at the emergency room and made an appointment with an Orthopedic surgeon. The day of my appointment, I was sitting in the wheelchair when I started to get clammy, a cold sweat was washing over me. I knew I was going to black out. "Mom, I'm going to pass out," I said nonchalantly. She did what any mother would do; screamed for help. It was too late, I passed out and awakened relatively quickly. This wasn't the first time I had passed out, so I knew the signs of it and knew I woke awaken to everyone around me panicking.
When I was 13, I went through an episode of passing out for about 3-4 days. My pediatrician chalked it up to some kind of weird virus and me not getting enough nutrients. I couldn't get out of bed for those few days, and when I did, I would black out. It scared the shit out of my parents, but when it seemed to go away, they quit worrying, as did I. So, when I started to pass out again after tearing my MCL, the doctors told me it was because I was in too much pain. This seemed odd to me because I wasn't in an excruciating amount of pain at the moment. When it happened, I could see myself passing out, but I hadn't, so why would I pass out now?
Fast forward to three weeks later. I was about to finish my first semester of high school. I was in physics class, taking the final, and thinking about how much time I would waste during Christmas Break because of my knee injury. I finished my test, straightened up in the stool, and felt the cold, clammy sweat that I knew meant I was going to pass out. Oh fuckkkkk, why here?! "Mr. K, Mr. K. I...I'm going to pass out," I said breathlessly as I tried to stay conscious. I never saw a man react quicker than he did. He kind of did a deer in the headlights oh shit what do I do look, but he ran to get the nurse quickly enough. My classmates looked at me oddly, but I wasn't concerned about that. I knew I couldn't move without passing out, but I didn't want to fall and crack my head open, so I leaned my head on the table.
The nurse and my teacher came running in. The nurse rolled a computer chair to me and I transferred into it. She rolled me to the back room and I laid on the floor. I was relieved because sometimes when I lay down, if I did it fast enough, it could prevent me from going unconscious. The nurse knew my mom was home because she had known my older sister for four years and knew that my mom had quit her job to stay with my youngest sister. The nurse took my blood pressure. Her eyes worried me as she read out, "84/56, pulse is...18." What the fuck!! I had been to enough doctor's appointments and listened to my dad talk about various patients he had taken care of on calls (he's a firefighter/paramedic) to know that those numbers were not good.
The nurse called the ambulance as I started to panic. I felt like I couldn't breathe, not because of a pressure or anything, but like I didn't have enough energy to fill my lungs with air. Since my family only lives a few minutes from the high school, my mom was there almost instantaneously. She took one look at me and I could see the concern in her face. I didn't know what I looked like, but I knew it wasn't good.
The paramedics came in and carted me off. I tried to persuade them to wait a few minutes because passing period had just ended and I knew there would be some lurkers still in the hallways. "Sorry, we need to go now, honey," the lady paramedic replied. As I was wheeled out, several people saw me. Two of my teammates saw me and asked what happened, but they wouldn't stop to let me answer. As I exited the school on a stretcher, my fifteen year old self-conscience idiot self was mortified. Even more so as I glanced up to the second story and saw a boy who was a senior who had been in my spanish class. I didn't know it at the time, but he was on his way to the bathroom when he saw the flashing lights of the ambulance. He was in art class with my older sister at the time and forgot about the bathroom as he ran back to the class to tell my sister that I was being taken away on a stretcher. My sister, in turn, looked at her teacher, who told her to find the principal and ask what happened. The nurse informed my sister of what happened, and since my sister was a senior and had a car on campus, they allowed her to leave school.
Anyway, I felt strange in the ambulance. I had been in them several times before when my family would visit my dad at the firehouse, but I had never been in one where I was the patient. The lady paramedic talked to me as she started an IV and affixed the nasal pillows in my nostrils for the oxygen. I was scared shitless. My mom was following us in our van because she had my four year old sister with her. Shit, what am I going to do about my other finals? I seriously was worried about my grades. I needed to keep good grades if I wanted to get an athletic scholarship. My pitching coach for softball had told me that the better your academics are, the more attractive you are to universities.
As the paramedics wheeled me into the hospital, I saw the familiar face of a nurse, who asked what I was doing here...again. As the paramedics read off terms I didn't understand, her face changed and I was getting pissed at these people. Was something so seriously wrong that I could see it in their facial expressions?
My mom ran in a few minutes later, and after her, my dad came rushing in. By this time, I was hooked up to several moniters and I could hear my heart beat on a monitor. My dad listened to it as he looked at the monitor and glanced at his watch. This wasn't good. My dad would usually be joking around. He put his index finger and middle finger on the inside of my wrist and pushed, trying to feel for a pulse. I started crying because I was scared. The woman on the other side of the curtain farted and I smiled through my tears as my dad told me everything would be okay. I nodded and asked when a doctor would come see me. My dad tapped on the electrodes attached to my chest and said, "That'll bring them in."
Sure enough, a doctor came in soon after. The doctor pulled my parents outside as a nurse checked my vitals. I couldn't hear what he was saying to them, but my parents came back in, looking more worried than before. "Ok," the doctor began, "I know you're wondering what's going on and everything. I'll tell you, and your dad can explain some of the more difficult words to understand when I'm done. What's going on is that you're having irregular heartbeats. Sometimes it's normal to have these, but you're having them too often and too close together. Your heart isn't working properly. Unfortunately, we aren't specialized enough here at this hospital to take care of you, so you'll be transferred right away."
My eyes were wide open as I tried to catch my breath. An alarm went off on the monitor, signaling a period of trigeminal preventricular contractions (PVCs). My mom and dad told me they would be with me at the new hospital and that everything would be okay. During the forty minute drive to the other hospital, I didn't think about the magnitude of the situation. I only thought about my knee hurting because it was something I could concentrate on.
At the new hospital, I was wheeled into the PICU because I wasn't old enough to go to the regular Intensive Care Unit. Several nurses hooked me up to new monitors and took my vitals and asked how I was feeling as they jotted down notes. It was a whirlwind of activity that I can distinctly remember. It was a huge clusterfuck and I wanted out. My mom and dad came in and my mom was crying. I hate to see my mom cry, it's like watching puppies being kicked. Doctors came in to see me and to talk to my parents. While they were outside a nurse came in and asked if I needed anything. "Umm...I'm kind of hungry. I missed lunch, could I get something to eat?" She smiled and brought me in a bologna sandwich, my favorite. For that moment, everything was right, I had the comfort of bologna sandwiches filling my stomach.
Lunch got cut short when a woman wheeled in an electrocardiogram machine to take a type of ultrasound of my heart. She splooged a bunch of lube on it and opened up my new uniform for the next week: a pretty, open-in-the-front, hospital gown. My boob popped out and I tried to cover it up, but it didn't matter. By the end of my first hospital stay, I didn't care who saw my tits anymore if it meant I could get the fuck out of there.
A few hours later, a cardiologist came in to talk to me and my family. "What's going on is a type of cardiomyopathy, basically a disease of the heart. Your daughter is having too many PVCs, which is making the heart work extremely hard. Because of this, her heart has weakened significantly as well as grown. Right now, her heart should be about the size of my fist, but it's probably around the size of a large cantaloupe. We're going to monitor her and medicate her and run some more tests." I looked at my parents because I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Heart problem? I knew it couldn't be because of high blood pressure or high cholesterol...so how did this happen? My dad asked what my EF was. I had no idea what this meant. "Well, we haven't measured her ejection fraction yet, but her heart is functioning around 9-12%." Fuckkkkkk. I didn't know then that normal hearts don't function at 100%, but normally at around 55-60%. Still bad, but not as bad as what I was thinking.
My mom cried harder and I zoned out. During the next week, I would sleep about 20-21 hours of the day. My heart couldn't take care of my body, so I slept. I would wake up to eat and when the doctors came in, but other than that, I was out of it. I'd periodically hear my mom sobbing while talking to the nurses and doctors and I could feel my dad squeeze my fingers or push my shins to see how long it took for the blood to pool back.
By now it was Christmas time and I wanted to be at home. Because of medication, my arrythmia was relatively stable. I had met with an electrophysiologist to discuss the electrial misfirings of my heart, which causes the arrythmias. I performed a tilt-table test, which did not make me pass out, so the problem was internal, not external, which I thought we had already cleared up, but you know how doctors are.
I was released, but the doctors knew I would be back because the problem was not fixed. We had Christmas "day" the day I returned home because we wanted to make sure it was done as a family and not with me in the hospital. Soon enough, the doctors called. "We'd like to make an appointment with your daughter to schedule an implantation of a AICD." A what? An Automatic Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator. The doctors told me that the medication was helping me, but I was still at risk for sudden death due to the arrythmias. I didn't know this at the time, but I was later informed that if I had passed out that day in physics, I would not have woken up. It was my body's last straw, and once I would have gone unconcious, there was slight chance to regain it.
I panicked. I never had a surgery where doctors would need to cut me up really. My boyfriend at the time, whose mother was a nurse, tried to assure me that it was no big deal, this happens everyday. Yeah, but not to fifteen year old girls...why can't you just say, 'you're right, baby. It's scary.' This would eventually lead to our breakup, his denying that I was "sick". Anyways, the day of my surgery came. The stupid bitch nurse couldn't find a vein in my hand, which was weird because they never had trouble before. She fished around, trying to catch one, when I asked her to stop and find someone else. When she left the room, my dad slid the needle in effortlessly and painlessly. I said bye to parents and kissed them as I was wheeled into the scariest fucking room I've ever seen. It was all white with a giant bright light in the center and smelled of sterilization chemicals. I tried to be brave as they got everything ready, but I really wanted to puke when I saw the scalpel that would be slicing me open. Soon enough, I was passed out under anesthia and waking up in recovery, feeling like I was choking because there was an incubation tube down my throat. I thought I was dying, but lucky me, I wasn't.
After the time in recovery, I went through a weird phase. I pushed around at the incision, feeling the cookie-sized impant in my chest. I looked at the stitches and thought about the other scars on my body and how this one would be the longest story to tell.
I went back to school and hated walking into a room where everyone would stare at me. "Oh look, there's the girl that almost died from a cocaine OD," "Oh, that chick had a heart attack!" or my personal favorite, "Dude, I totally thought you were dead!" Well, thanks for the concern, fucktard, but I'm not.
One day in March, I came home feeling like my legs were itchy. I rolled up my jeans to look at calves the size of watermelons. God dammit. Off to the ER I go. This time, I was informed that I had pericarditis. The pericardium is a teensy tiny little son of a gun that lines the heart. Mine became inflammed because of the foreign object in my body. Understandable. Once again, I would be going under for surgery, this time to remove the excess fluid around my heart that the diuretics couldn't take care of.
I woke up from a nap, which was all I did at the hospital, to the doctors talking to my mom about steriods. Steroids? I never took steroids. The docs put me on massive amounts of prednisone for about three months. I don't remember a lot that happened during this time because they made me bat-shit crazy. I'm not even sure how I managed not to kill myself during that time, and I'm being completely honest when I say that. When I was on steriods I was a different person. Not only physically because of the weight gain and acne, but mentally. I wanted to kill myself constantly. I was angry most of the time and if I wasn't angry then I was crying and pitying myself. I was a bitch to everyone and I felt ostracized by all my peers, which wasn't much of a hallucination, but it only added to my depression. Late at night, I would sneak down into the kitchen and grab our biggest butcher knife and hold the cold steel against my wrists, thinking that it was completely logical to do this if I didn't actually cut into the skin deep enough.
Needless to say, I was fucked up. About a month after I got off the steriods, fragments of me returned, but I was still different. I didn't go out. I didn't talk to anyone. I tried desparetly to win my ex-boyfriend back. I thought my little sister was my only friend. Every now and then I would get strange pains in my body, all over, not just in my chest. My nurse practioner told me that I just had to deal with it, this was my life now and I had to learn how to live it with the "pings and pangs." I wanted to kill that cunt.
A few months later, I went to my doctor with my mom. I told him if I didn't get some anti-depressants soon or something, I'm not sure what would happen. I wasn't myself and I wasn't someone who I felt comfortable being. Since then, I've been on Zoloft. I'm happy to say that I hardly ever fall into depression, and when I do it's the normal kind of everyday blues that I can handle.
When I was 17, I was diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis. Say that five times fast. It's a type of arthritis that can basically inflame any part of the human body. I've had pink eye several times because of an inflammed tear duct, and I've also been diagnosed with Inflammable Bowel Disease, which is not the same as IBS. AS and IBD are linked due to the inflammation that causes flare-ups, which is double fun! However, I try to control these two as much as possible through diet, meaning no seeds, and trying to stay away from salad, which is super hard for me. I take a total of 22 pills a day currently, some for my heart disease, one for depression, one for allergies, one is birth control, two for gastrointestinal problems.
So, you ask what does this have to do with my mother? Well, when I was fifteen, I was a virgin and my mom thought I was on my deathbed. One of her biggest concerns was that I was going to die without knowing what sex felt like. The woman was actually going to "hire" one of my friends to come and do the deed, but then I was released from the hospital.
When I was sixteen, she asked me if I knew how to masturbate and told me that it was normal and that she had caught my older sister doing it one day. Great! She does it, so I'll do it...we can have a whole party!
When I came to college, I was on the phone with my mom who had to go and she asked me to call her later. "Well, I might have a guy spend the night, so I'll call you in the morning." We have a pretty cool relationship, and she usually knows some basic details of my love life. Her response to that? "Okay, well if it's your first time, just know that you'll probably bleed a little bit, but have fun! It's okay to have sex with him because you've known him forevvvvvver, so call me later! Bye!"
She really said that. I'm not even lying. This past summer, my mom bought me a vibrator. It's a little purple metallic one that has three settings: Little Buzz, Medium Buzz, and HOLY FUCK MY CLIT'S GONNA GET WORN OFF Buzz. It has since run out of batteries, and I cannot find the little batteries to replace them anywhere, so if you have some....mail them my way, huh?
See, the reason I'm telling this story is so that people can see the silver lining in every situation. Yeah, getting sick sucked. It sucked losing my pretty much full ride to a Division I school for softball and gaining weight from steroids. But I love who I am now. I know myself, inside and out, and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. It has made me realize the important things in my life and it has given me an amazing relationship with my mother. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I asked her to bring me some leftovers from home when she came to drop off some medicine. The woman packed me a ginormous cucumber from our garden and some potatoes to bake. I knew she knew the phallic symbols of her little goody bag and I wouldn't doubt it if she thought I'd use the cucumber to ummm...you know.
When I was fifteen, I tore my MCL during a basketball game. I was a point guard (I mean, does it surprise you that I needed to be in control of the ball? Didn't think so) and I stupidly got caught in a trap along the sideline. Unfortunately, none of my teammates came to the ball to help, so I tried to maneuver my way out of it by doing a crossover dribble. I tried to slide around the defender, and it almost worked, except my right foot was caught with her left foot, causing my knee to move, but not my foot, resulting in the worst physical pain that I've ever felt.
I received an immobilizer at the emergency room and made an appointment with an Orthopedic surgeon. The day of my appointment, I was sitting in the wheelchair when I started to get clammy, a cold sweat was washing over me. I knew I was going to black out. "Mom, I'm going to pass out," I said nonchalantly. She did what any mother would do; screamed for help. It was too late, I passed out and awakened relatively quickly. This wasn't the first time I had passed out, so I knew the signs of it and knew I woke awaken to everyone around me panicking.
When I was 13, I went through an episode of passing out for about 3-4 days. My pediatrician chalked it up to some kind of weird virus and me not getting enough nutrients. I couldn't get out of bed for those few days, and when I did, I would black out. It scared the shit out of my parents, but when it seemed to go away, they quit worrying, as did I. So, when I started to pass out again after tearing my MCL, the doctors told me it was because I was in too much pain. This seemed odd to me because I wasn't in an excruciating amount of pain at the moment. When it happened, I could see myself passing out, but I hadn't, so why would I pass out now?
Fast forward to three weeks later. I was about to finish my first semester of high school. I was in physics class, taking the final, and thinking about how much time I would waste during Christmas Break because of my knee injury. I finished my test, straightened up in the stool, and felt the cold, clammy sweat that I knew meant I was going to pass out. Oh fuckkkkk, why here?! "Mr. K, Mr. K. I...I'm going to pass out," I said breathlessly as I tried to stay conscious. I never saw a man react quicker than he did. He kind of did a deer in the headlights oh shit what do I do look, but he ran to get the nurse quickly enough. My classmates looked at me oddly, but I wasn't concerned about that. I knew I couldn't move without passing out, but I didn't want to fall and crack my head open, so I leaned my head on the table.
The nurse and my teacher came running in. The nurse rolled a computer chair to me and I transferred into it. She rolled me to the back room and I laid on the floor. I was relieved because sometimes when I lay down, if I did it fast enough, it could prevent me from going unconscious. The nurse knew my mom was home because she had known my older sister for four years and knew that my mom had quit her job to stay with my youngest sister. The nurse took my blood pressure. Her eyes worried me as she read out, "84/56, pulse is...18." What the fuck!! I had been to enough doctor's appointments and listened to my dad talk about various patients he had taken care of on calls (he's a firefighter/paramedic) to know that those numbers were not good.
The nurse called the ambulance as I started to panic. I felt like I couldn't breathe, not because of a pressure or anything, but like I didn't have enough energy to fill my lungs with air. Since my family only lives a few minutes from the high school, my mom was there almost instantaneously. She took one look at me and I could see the concern in her face. I didn't know what I looked like, but I knew it wasn't good.
The paramedics came in and carted me off. I tried to persuade them to wait a few minutes because passing period had just ended and I knew there would be some lurkers still in the hallways. "Sorry, we need to go now, honey," the lady paramedic replied. As I was wheeled out, several people saw me. Two of my teammates saw me and asked what happened, but they wouldn't stop to let me answer. As I exited the school on a stretcher, my fifteen year old self-conscience idiot self was mortified. Even more so as I glanced up to the second story and saw a boy who was a senior who had been in my spanish class. I didn't know it at the time, but he was on his way to the bathroom when he saw the flashing lights of the ambulance. He was in art class with my older sister at the time and forgot about the bathroom as he ran back to the class to tell my sister that I was being taken away on a stretcher. My sister, in turn, looked at her teacher, who told her to find the principal and ask what happened. The nurse informed my sister of what happened, and since my sister was a senior and had a car on campus, they allowed her to leave school.
Anyway, I felt strange in the ambulance. I had been in them several times before when my family would visit my dad at the firehouse, but I had never been in one where I was the patient. The lady paramedic talked to me as she started an IV and affixed the nasal pillows in my nostrils for the oxygen. I was scared shitless. My mom was following us in our van because she had my four year old sister with her. Shit, what am I going to do about my other finals? I seriously was worried about my grades. I needed to keep good grades if I wanted to get an athletic scholarship. My pitching coach for softball had told me that the better your academics are, the more attractive you are to universities.
As the paramedics wheeled me into the hospital, I saw the familiar face of a nurse, who asked what I was doing here...again. As the paramedics read off terms I didn't understand, her face changed and I was getting pissed at these people. Was something so seriously wrong that I could see it in their facial expressions?
My mom ran in a few minutes later, and after her, my dad came rushing in. By this time, I was hooked up to several moniters and I could hear my heart beat on a monitor. My dad listened to it as he looked at the monitor and glanced at his watch. This wasn't good. My dad would usually be joking around. He put his index finger and middle finger on the inside of my wrist and pushed, trying to feel for a pulse. I started crying because I was scared. The woman on the other side of the curtain farted and I smiled through my tears as my dad told me everything would be okay. I nodded and asked when a doctor would come see me. My dad tapped on the electrodes attached to my chest and said, "That'll bring them in."
Sure enough, a doctor came in soon after. The doctor pulled my parents outside as a nurse checked my vitals. I couldn't hear what he was saying to them, but my parents came back in, looking more worried than before. "Ok," the doctor began, "I know you're wondering what's going on and everything. I'll tell you, and your dad can explain some of the more difficult words to understand when I'm done. What's going on is that you're having irregular heartbeats. Sometimes it's normal to have these, but you're having them too often and too close together. Your heart isn't working properly. Unfortunately, we aren't specialized enough here at this hospital to take care of you, so you'll be transferred right away."
My eyes were wide open as I tried to catch my breath. An alarm went off on the monitor, signaling a period of trigeminal preventricular contractions (PVCs). My mom and dad told me they would be with me at the new hospital and that everything would be okay. During the forty minute drive to the other hospital, I didn't think about the magnitude of the situation. I only thought about my knee hurting because it was something I could concentrate on.
At the new hospital, I was wheeled into the PICU because I wasn't old enough to go to the regular Intensive Care Unit. Several nurses hooked me up to new monitors and took my vitals and asked how I was feeling as they jotted down notes. It was a whirlwind of activity that I can distinctly remember. It was a huge clusterfuck and I wanted out. My mom and dad came in and my mom was crying. I hate to see my mom cry, it's like watching puppies being kicked. Doctors came in to see me and to talk to my parents. While they were outside a nurse came in and asked if I needed anything. "Umm...I'm kind of hungry. I missed lunch, could I get something to eat?" She smiled and brought me in a bologna sandwich, my favorite. For that moment, everything was right, I had the comfort of bologna sandwiches filling my stomach.
Lunch got cut short when a woman wheeled in an electrocardiogram machine to take a type of ultrasound of my heart. She splooged a bunch of lube on it and opened up my new uniform for the next week: a pretty, open-in-the-front, hospital gown. My boob popped out and I tried to cover it up, but it didn't matter. By the end of my first hospital stay, I didn't care who saw my tits anymore if it meant I could get the fuck out of there.
A few hours later, a cardiologist came in to talk to me and my family. "What's going on is a type of cardiomyopathy, basically a disease of the heart. Your daughter is having too many PVCs, which is making the heart work extremely hard. Because of this, her heart has weakened significantly as well as grown. Right now, her heart should be about the size of my fist, but it's probably around the size of a large cantaloupe. We're going to monitor her and medicate her and run some more tests." I looked at my parents because I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Heart problem? I knew it couldn't be because of high blood pressure or high cholesterol...so how did this happen? My dad asked what my EF was. I had no idea what this meant. "Well, we haven't measured her ejection fraction yet, but her heart is functioning around 9-12%." Fuckkkkkk. I didn't know then that normal hearts don't function at 100%, but normally at around 55-60%. Still bad, but not as bad as what I was thinking.
My mom cried harder and I zoned out. During the next week, I would sleep about 20-21 hours of the day. My heart couldn't take care of my body, so I slept. I would wake up to eat and when the doctors came in, but other than that, I was out of it. I'd periodically hear my mom sobbing while talking to the nurses and doctors and I could feel my dad squeeze my fingers or push my shins to see how long it took for the blood to pool back.
By now it was Christmas time and I wanted to be at home. Because of medication, my arrythmia was relatively stable. I had met with an electrophysiologist to discuss the electrial misfirings of my heart, which causes the arrythmias. I performed a tilt-table test, which did not make me pass out, so the problem was internal, not external, which I thought we had already cleared up, but you know how doctors are.
I was released, but the doctors knew I would be back because the problem was not fixed. We had Christmas "day" the day I returned home because we wanted to make sure it was done as a family and not with me in the hospital. Soon enough, the doctors called. "We'd like to make an appointment with your daughter to schedule an implantation of a AICD." A what? An Automatic Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator. The doctors told me that the medication was helping me, but I was still at risk for sudden death due to the arrythmias. I didn't know this at the time, but I was later informed that if I had passed out that day in physics, I would not have woken up. It was my body's last straw, and once I would have gone unconcious, there was slight chance to regain it.
I panicked. I never had a surgery where doctors would need to cut me up really. My boyfriend at the time, whose mother was a nurse, tried to assure me that it was no big deal, this happens everyday. Yeah, but not to fifteen year old girls...why can't you just say, 'you're right, baby. It's scary.' This would eventually lead to our breakup, his denying that I was "sick". Anyways, the day of my surgery came. The stupid bitch nurse couldn't find a vein in my hand, which was weird because they never had trouble before. She fished around, trying to catch one, when I asked her to stop and find someone else. When she left the room, my dad slid the needle in effortlessly and painlessly. I said bye to parents and kissed them as I was wheeled into the scariest fucking room I've ever seen. It was all white with a giant bright light in the center and smelled of sterilization chemicals. I tried to be brave as they got everything ready, but I really wanted to puke when I saw the scalpel that would be slicing me open. Soon enough, I was passed out under anesthia and waking up in recovery, feeling like I was choking because there was an incubation tube down my throat. I thought I was dying, but lucky me, I wasn't.
After the time in recovery, I went through a weird phase. I pushed around at the incision, feeling the cookie-sized impant in my chest. I looked at the stitches and thought about the other scars on my body and how this one would be the longest story to tell.
I went back to school and hated walking into a room where everyone would stare at me. "Oh look, there's the girl that almost died from a cocaine OD," "Oh, that chick had a heart attack!" or my personal favorite, "Dude, I totally thought you were dead!" Well, thanks for the concern, fucktard, but I'm not.
One day in March, I came home feeling like my legs were itchy. I rolled up my jeans to look at calves the size of watermelons. God dammit. Off to the ER I go. This time, I was informed that I had pericarditis. The pericardium is a teensy tiny little son of a gun that lines the heart. Mine became inflammed because of the foreign object in my body. Understandable. Once again, I would be going under for surgery, this time to remove the excess fluid around my heart that the diuretics couldn't take care of.
I woke up from a nap, which was all I did at the hospital, to the doctors talking to my mom about steriods. Steroids? I never took steroids. The docs put me on massive amounts of prednisone for about three months. I don't remember a lot that happened during this time because they made me bat-shit crazy. I'm not even sure how I managed not to kill myself during that time, and I'm being completely honest when I say that. When I was on steriods I was a different person. Not only physically because of the weight gain and acne, but mentally. I wanted to kill myself constantly. I was angry most of the time and if I wasn't angry then I was crying and pitying myself. I was a bitch to everyone and I felt ostracized by all my peers, which wasn't much of a hallucination, but it only added to my depression. Late at night, I would sneak down into the kitchen and grab our biggest butcher knife and hold the cold steel against my wrists, thinking that it was completely logical to do this if I didn't actually cut into the skin deep enough.
Needless to say, I was fucked up. About a month after I got off the steriods, fragments of me returned, but I was still different. I didn't go out. I didn't talk to anyone. I tried desparetly to win my ex-boyfriend back. I thought my little sister was my only friend. Every now and then I would get strange pains in my body, all over, not just in my chest. My nurse practioner told me that I just had to deal with it, this was my life now and I had to learn how to live it with the "pings and pangs." I wanted to kill that cunt.
A few months later, I went to my doctor with my mom. I told him if I didn't get some anti-depressants soon or something, I'm not sure what would happen. I wasn't myself and I wasn't someone who I felt comfortable being. Since then, I've been on Zoloft. I'm happy to say that I hardly ever fall into depression, and when I do it's the normal kind of everyday blues that I can handle.
When I was 17, I was diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis. Say that five times fast. It's a type of arthritis that can basically inflame any part of the human body. I've had pink eye several times because of an inflammed tear duct, and I've also been diagnosed with Inflammable Bowel Disease, which is not the same as IBS. AS and IBD are linked due to the inflammation that causes flare-ups, which is double fun! However, I try to control these two as much as possible through diet, meaning no seeds, and trying to stay away from salad, which is super hard for me. I take a total of 22 pills a day currently, some for my heart disease, one for depression, one for allergies, one is birth control, two for gastrointestinal problems.
So, you ask what does this have to do with my mother? Well, when I was fifteen, I was a virgin and my mom thought I was on my deathbed. One of her biggest concerns was that I was going to die without knowing what sex felt like. The woman was actually going to "hire" one of my friends to come and do the deed, but then I was released from the hospital.
When I was sixteen, she asked me if I knew how to masturbate and told me that it was normal and that she had caught my older sister doing it one day. Great! She does it, so I'll do it...we can have a whole party!
When I came to college, I was on the phone with my mom who had to go and she asked me to call her later. "Well, I might have a guy spend the night, so I'll call you in the morning." We have a pretty cool relationship, and she usually knows some basic details of my love life. Her response to that? "Okay, well if it's your first time, just know that you'll probably bleed a little bit, but have fun! It's okay to have sex with him because you've known him forevvvvvver, so call me later! Bye!"
She really said that. I'm not even lying. This past summer, my mom bought me a vibrator. It's a little purple metallic one that has three settings: Little Buzz, Medium Buzz, and HOLY FUCK MY CLIT'S GONNA GET WORN OFF Buzz. It has since run out of batteries, and I cannot find the little batteries to replace them anywhere, so if you have some....mail them my way, huh?
See, the reason I'm telling this story is so that people can see the silver lining in every situation. Yeah, getting sick sucked. It sucked losing my pretty much full ride to a Division I school for softball and gaining weight from steroids. But I love who I am now. I know myself, inside and out, and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. It has made me realize the important things in my life and it has given me an amazing relationship with my mother. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I asked her to bring me some leftovers from home when she came to drop off some medicine. The woman packed me a ginormous cucumber from our garden and some potatoes to bake. I knew she knew the phallic symbols of her little goody bag and I wouldn't doubt it if she thought I'd use the cucumber to ummm...you know.
Monday, September 22, 2008
This isn't the after glow of sex, this is the glow of me being fucking pissed.
You already know what happened. I know you know. I know you know that I know. He didn't come. Not in my mouth, not in my hair (like last time), not on my stomach...I mean he didn't come see me at all. Fucktard. Fuck fuck fuck! I guess I should start from the beginning.
I'll cut to the chase. Saturday was my school's homecoming dance. Dancing makes me horny (like I needed any help in that area). I watched as some of my peers dry-humped to Hip-Hop or House music and as the more timid ones swayed awkwardly while snapping their fingers. I knew I was going to invite douchebag over however bad of an idea it was. He said he couldn't come over, so I was like okay, fuck you, that's the last straw. 2:25 am rolls around and I hear the pleasant little bell chime notifying me of a new text message. It's him! I felt like a six-year-old girl who got a pony for her birthday. "Let's have sex," it said. Ummmm what the fuck? I asked him why he didn't come over earlier if that's what he wanted. "I had something to do, I did it, and I wanted to come over." Right. Like I don't know what that means. There's several conclusions I can draw from this. A) He was with another chick and didn't get lucky, B) He was with his boys and didn't want to say "hey guys, gotta go for a booty call with the girl I don't want to tell any of you about," C) He was playing video games and reached a level where he could save. There could be others, but those seem likely to me.
I told him that I had work in the morning and he couldn't come over, so sorry, asshole. "I want you so bad. I want to be inside you." Ah, fuck. The cooch got wet and my brain went fuzzy. Okay...maybe I'll make an exception this one time...No, wait. I've made numerous excuses for him and his asshole ways. I'm breaking my one rules and being a hypocrit. I tell my friends not to put up with this type of bullshit from guys, yet I do the same fucking thing. The war between my brain and my crotch was giving me a fucking headache and I relented. I told him he could come over tomorrow after I got off work and after I was done studying. "I can't wait. You're going to feel more pleasure than ever before. I can't wait to taste that sweet pussy again." Yeah, because you went down on me for like 30 seconds last time, douche. You're not getting away with that again.
So, Sunday rolls around. I told him he could come over at like 9ish and he said that would be fine. 10 o'clock comes around and he's nowhere to be seen. I don't text him, or call him, or anything. I already know. I look on my AIM and see an away message of a mutual friend of mine and d-bag's. "At the movies with my husband!" it says. FUCK! I know she means him because they have this gay little joke. This girl has mind control over him. Anything she wants, he does. She won't date him because she just wants to be friends, in reality I think she's a cold prude who hasn't ever fondled her own boobs.
Again, I don't contact him after I find this new information. Instead of going to see a cliche chick flick with the ice queen he could have been pounding away listening to some heavy metal. I mean, in my head, the two don't even seem comparable. Guaranteed sex.......or movie with stick figured cuntrag? Okay, Bob, I'll take the movie.
Fuck. My. Life.
I'll cut to the chase. Saturday was my school's homecoming dance. Dancing makes me horny (like I needed any help in that area). I watched as some of my peers dry-humped to Hip-Hop or House music and as the more timid ones swayed awkwardly while snapping their fingers. I knew I was going to invite douchebag over however bad of an idea it was. He said he couldn't come over, so I was like okay, fuck you, that's the last straw. 2:25 am rolls around and I hear the pleasant little bell chime notifying me of a new text message. It's him! I felt like a six-year-old girl who got a pony for her birthday. "Let's have sex," it said. Ummmm what the fuck? I asked him why he didn't come over earlier if that's what he wanted. "I had something to do, I did it, and I wanted to come over." Right. Like I don't know what that means. There's several conclusions I can draw from this. A) He was with another chick and didn't get lucky, B) He was with his boys and didn't want to say "hey guys, gotta go for a booty call with the girl I don't want to tell any of you about," C) He was playing video games and reached a level where he could save. There could be others, but those seem likely to me.
I told him that I had work in the morning and he couldn't come over, so sorry, asshole. "I want you so bad. I want to be inside you." Ah, fuck. The cooch got wet and my brain went fuzzy. Okay...maybe I'll make an exception this one time...No, wait. I've made numerous excuses for him and his asshole ways. I'm breaking my one rules and being a hypocrit. I tell my friends not to put up with this type of bullshit from guys, yet I do the same fucking thing. The war between my brain and my crotch was giving me a fucking headache and I relented. I told him he could come over tomorrow after I got off work and after I was done studying. "I can't wait. You're going to feel more pleasure than ever before. I can't wait to taste that sweet pussy again." Yeah, because you went down on me for like 30 seconds last time, douche. You're not getting away with that again.
So, Sunday rolls around. I told him he could come over at like 9ish and he said that would be fine. 10 o'clock comes around and he's nowhere to be seen. I don't text him, or call him, or anything. I already know. I look on my AIM and see an away message of a mutual friend of mine and d-bag's. "At the movies with my husband!" it says. FUCK! I know she means him because they have this gay little joke. This girl has mind control over him. Anything she wants, he does. She won't date him because she just wants to be friends, in reality I think she's a cold prude who hasn't ever fondled her own boobs.
Again, I don't contact him after I find this new information. Instead of going to see a cliche chick flick with the ice queen he could have been pounding away listening to some heavy metal. I mean, in my head, the two don't even seem comparable. Guaranteed sex.......or movie with stick figured cuntrag? Okay, Bob, I'll take the movie.
Fuck. My. Life.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Well here we go again.
Douchebag is coming over in an hour and a half. I have a hard time saying no to him, obviously. I can't decide if I want him because I'm attracted to him and see a future *maybe* or if I'm just too frickin horny that I'll take what he puts out there because it's better than nothing. For now, I'm going to play it by ear and just see how things go. Updates about tonight soon, I promise.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Bologna sandwiches
This week is homecoming week at my college. Meaning there's something to do every night that is school sponsored, and then there's the something to do every night that is sponsored by Jack, Johnny, and the Captain. Since becoming an RA this past year, I've noticed that administrators think that RAs have a lot of free time and that they'll jump at the opportunity to do anything for the school. Well, that's not really how I think of my job. However, I gave up two hours of my Wednesday night to do a good deed for my school, judging men based on their physical appearance and how much derriere kissing they'd be willing to do. I was the only student judge, lucky me. The director of Res. Life and a professional staff member were the other judges. Those hosts were glad that I showed up to judge. They demanded that I share my bitchiness with the crowd. "Say whatever you want, whenever you want. Just jump right in!" Well, alright. I'm glad to know that my saltiness is known school wide by people I don't really know. After the show, one of my friends who had competed told me that the male host went backstage and said something along the lines of, "You know that chick judge? She's so fucking funny. She's going to rip all of you apart if you're not funny." Okay, he knows me pretty well I suppose. I think this is because I'm such a nasty cunt when I'm hypnotized, and I've done that twice.
The judges were told of all the contestants before hand and since my school is pretty small, I knew or knew of all of them. Two are friends, the other two I know of. One has called me a bitch for doing my RA duties. Let's just say he didn't win. Neither did underclassmen number 2, who has fucked around 5-10 girls since being in school for a whole month and a half, including one of my close friends. I tried to go into it without being too judgmental, but it got the worst of me. When I saw Mr. Fucksalot come out in his formal wear, I raised my hand to comment. "Yes, our judges seem to have some comments. What did you think of his formal attire?" "Oh, he was nicely dressed however, I have to call inappropriate use of a Mohawk," I replied. Mr. Fucksalot looked a little shocked as the audience laughed and clapped. He must think that just because he's on the football team that it's okay for someone over the age of 14 to have a mohawk.
We proceeded to the talent section and then to the Q&A section. As the contestants answered, I scored them. I was unbelievably biased. Even I was surprised at how bitchy I was being to the two underclassmen. When Mr. Fucksalot answered his "name something romantic you would do for a girl" question, I had to jump in. His talent had been making a grilled cheese sandwich on an ironing board. The male host saw me chomping at the bit to insult this poor boy. "Looks like our judges have a comment." "This is for contestant number four....is that a grilled cheese in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" He blushed as he pulled out a 3/4 eaten sandwich from his basketball shorts. It really was a grilled cheese sandwich in there. The crowd erupted in laughter as he pulled it out and took a bite then offered it to me. No, thanks Mr. Fucksalot, I'd really like to remain Herpes free for the moment.
After the show, several people commented on how funny I was, but I didn't really feel like I was being funny, I was just being a bitch because I'm horny. So, I tried to avoid prolonged conversation and get to my room as soon as possible to finish homework to take my mind off things. Didn't really work. So I ate a bologna and cheese sandwich and washed it down with some water. Bologna sandwiches always make me feel better, probably because my grandma always made me bologna sandwiches for lunch when I stayed at her house. I swore that she had a secret recipe for them when I was a kid because they didn't taste the same when I made them or when my parents made them for me. At Thanksgiving, she'd make me bologna sandwiches because I hate turkey. When I was ten, I finally asked her for her recipe. She wrote it down: "Two pieces of Wonder bread, Miracle Whip, Plochman's mustard, two slices of American cheese, and two slices of Oscar Mayer bologna. Spread Miracle Whip and mustard on each slice of bread, place one piece of cheese on top, then layer with bologna, and cheese until you end up with the last piece of bologna on top." Even after I had the recipe and I made it myself, it didn't taste as good. I called her to complain. "Well, there's another ingredient," she said. "Gramma! Why didn't you tell me? What is it?" "It's love, sweetie, that's the special ingredient."
I'll be 81 and eating bologna sandwiches thinking about that conversation and feeling the comfort of having had an amazing grandmother.
The judges were told of all the contestants before hand and since my school is pretty small, I knew or knew of all of them. Two are friends, the other two I know of. One has called me a bitch for doing my RA duties. Let's just say he didn't win. Neither did underclassmen number 2, who has fucked around 5-10 girls since being in school for a whole month and a half, including one of my close friends. I tried to go into it without being too judgmental, but it got the worst of me. When I saw Mr. Fucksalot come out in his formal wear, I raised my hand to comment. "Yes, our judges seem to have some comments. What did you think of his formal attire?" "Oh, he was nicely dressed however, I have to call inappropriate use of a Mohawk," I replied. Mr. Fucksalot looked a little shocked as the audience laughed and clapped. He must think that just because he's on the football team that it's okay for someone over the age of 14 to have a mohawk.
We proceeded to the talent section and then to the Q&A section. As the contestants answered, I scored them. I was unbelievably biased. Even I was surprised at how bitchy I was being to the two underclassmen. When Mr. Fucksalot answered his "name something romantic you would do for a girl" question, I had to jump in. His talent had been making a grilled cheese sandwich on an ironing board. The male host saw me chomping at the bit to insult this poor boy. "Looks like our judges have a comment." "This is for contestant number four....is that a grilled cheese in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" He blushed as he pulled out a 3/4 eaten sandwich from his basketball shorts. It really was a grilled cheese sandwich in there. The crowd erupted in laughter as he pulled it out and took a bite then offered it to me. No, thanks Mr. Fucksalot, I'd really like to remain Herpes free for the moment.
After the show, several people commented on how funny I was, but I didn't really feel like I was being funny, I was just being a bitch because I'm horny. So, I tried to avoid prolonged conversation and get to my room as soon as possible to finish homework to take my mind off things. Didn't really work. So I ate a bologna and cheese sandwich and washed it down with some water. Bologna sandwiches always make me feel better, probably because my grandma always made me bologna sandwiches for lunch when I stayed at her house. I swore that she had a secret recipe for them when I was a kid because they didn't taste the same when I made them or when my parents made them for me. At Thanksgiving, she'd make me bologna sandwiches because I hate turkey. When I was ten, I finally asked her for her recipe. She wrote it down: "Two pieces of Wonder bread, Miracle Whip, Plochman's mustard, two slices of American cheese, and two slices of Oscar Mayer bologna. Spread Miracle Whip and mustard on each slice of bread, place one piece of cheese on top, then layer with bologna, and cheese until you end up with the last piece of bologna on top." Even after I had the recipe and I made it myself, it didn't taste as good. I called her to complain. "Well, there's another ingredient," she said. "Gramma! Why didn't you tell me? What is it?" "It's love, sweetie, that's the special ingredient."
I'll be 81 and eating bologna sandwiches thinking about that conversation and feeling the comfort of having had an amazing grandmother.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
It's called a fantasy because I know it couldn't ever be real.
For the past 24 hours I've been absolutely obsessed with the song "Strong Enough," preferably sung by Sheryl Crow. I'm not sure why, it actually just popped into my head Saturday afternoon when I got out of the shower. I didn't have it on my iTunes, so I youTubed it like any cheap college student who can't afford "legal" songs would do. The song is poignant and endearing. It made me want to cry and it made me think of my ex-boyfriend and the good times we had, as well as the bad times. Then, it made me think of everything I want in a relationship. This ideal relationship that I was dreaming up in my head led me to think of the qualities that I would find in my perfect match. Some qualities might be shallow or silly, but it's my fantasy man for a reason: I know he couldn't exist. So here goes: (In no particular order)
Emotional/Personality traits
-Passionate...whether it's a temper, a zest for life, or a music fanatic..just something that brings a spark to his eyes when he's thinking or doing whatever he's passionate about
-A great sense of humor....I mean, what makes a great sense of humor? What's the definition of a good sense of humor? I don't know the answer to that, so my ideal man would have a similar sense of humor to my own, meaning that he could laugh at himself, laugh at fart and dick jokes, and see the humor in horrible situations.
-Honesty...He has to be honest to himself and honest to me. There's been a lot of dishonesty and betrayal in my life, and I've learned to guard myself accordingly. Perhaps I'm jaded or perhaps it's just a self-preservation tactic, all I know is that my ideal man would be honest. I'm not talking about he can't tell me a little white lie now and again, (Honey, you look AMAZING in that pink spandex bodysuit...) but overall honesty.
-Intelligence...One of my favorite things to do is have long, philosophical-what-does-it-all-mean conversations. If a guy can't keep up with the musings of my liberal arts educated brains, then I lose interest rather quickly
-Faith...I don't mean he has to be a religious nut (Remember, God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts) but I would like to hope the person that I spend my mortal life with has some faith in an afterlife. What's the point of living if it all ends in mortal death?
-Sexuality...I can't/couldn't be with a guy who has a sex-is-icky mentality. I believe that sex can make or break some relationships, and that may sound superficial, but it's the truth. I won't make qualifications on this like if he suddenly becomes a paraplegic and can't have sex, what would I do then? etc, etc. It is what it is.
-Compassion...My ideal guy would understand that sometimes I'm going to be the biggest cunt in the world when I'm over-exaggerating and feel like everything in my life is going to hell in a hand basket. He won't kick puppies or be judgmental. He'll be accepting. He'll be loving, and kind, and sweet.
-Curious...I like a man who never stops, thinking, researching, finding.
Physical
Here's where it'll get superficial, but it's MY fantasy, dammit.
-Irish accent...Yeah, you read that correctly. I love Irish accents, they're fucking hot. I want an Irishman who ends all of his flirtations with "darlin'" or "love."
-Thick, dark hair....it's so hot to me when a guy is going down on me and I can pull on his hair and run my fingers through it...mmmm.
-Bright eyes...not any particular color, but they just have a sparkle in them, a fleck of color that catches me when I see him.
-Height...mostly just taller than me, which isn't a whole lot of height. Anything taller than 5'10, but of course, on the flip side, shorter than 6'10. haha
-Muscular....Six pack abs are not necessary. Actually, the only part of the body that I love on a guy to be muscular are his arms and back. It makes me think of Mr. Temper....insert twitch of pussy here...
-Tattooed...I have an odd fascination with tattooed men....again, thinking of Mr. Temper. Maybe it's because he went though a certain amount of physical pain to get them? I'm not sure. I just know that it makes me wet to see a guy with a muscular back decorated with a tattoo.
-Big hands...to run over my body, to comfort me when I need it, to work around the house with.
-Should I mention his dick here? Maybe that would be crossing the line..........
-Athletic....I like to be outside, I like to play basketball, volleyball, even play catch. I also like to fish and camp...all of which need some amount of athleticism.
-Last, but certainly not least, an ass that looks amazing in a pair of tight Wranglers. Think Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise...mmmm baby.
Odds and Ends...little quirks that I find attractive
-knows how to handle things around the house. Maybe this is because I see my dad fix everything around the house, but I always thought my dream man would be able to fix a running toilet, or fix a leak in the roof.
-Playfulness...whether it's tickle fights in bed on Sunday morning or smacking my ass during sex, playfulness keeps a person and a relationship fresh.
-Eclectic...in his music, art, movie, whatever. I like a lot of variety in my life
-Can cook.....seriously, a guy that can cook is hot, just because I love to cook, so doing this activity with my man is always fun and has led to some great memories.
-Wants a bazillion kids...I'm the type of girl that feels the need to make babies and lots of them. Damn overpopulation. Maybe it's because I have a big family and want my kids to be able to rely on their siblings, cousins, parents, aunts, and uncles like I can.
Well, I've about run out of ideas or thoughts. It was actually a lot more difficult to write it all down then just let the thoughts run randomly through my head. Maybe now that it's written down, he'll appear tomorrow in my 10am class and it'll be love at first sight. Maybe I'm just a kid with a lot of fanciful dreams and not enough to occupy my mind. (Don't tell my teachers, please).
Emotional/Personality traits
-Passionate...whether it's a temper, a zest for life, or a music fanatic..just something that brings a spark to his eyes when he's thinking or doing whatever he's passionate about
-A great sense of humor....I mean, what makes a great sense of humor? What's the definition of a good sense of humor? I don't know the answer to that, so my ideal man would have a similar sense of humor to my own, meaning that he could laugh at himself, laugh at fart and dick jokes, and see the humor in horrible situations.
-Honesty...He has to be honest to himself and honest to me. There's been a lot of dishonesty and betrayal in my life, and I've learned to guard myself accordingly. Perhaps I'm jaded or perhaps it's just a self-preservation tactic, all I know is that my ideal man would be honest. I'm not talking about he can't tell me a little white lie now and again, (Honey, you look AMAZING in that pink spandex bodysuit...) but overall honesty.
-Intelligence...One of my favorite things to do is have long, philosophical-what-does-it-all-mean conversations. If a guy can't keep up with the musings of my liberal arts educated brains, then I lose interest rather quickly
-Faith...I don't mean he has to be a religious nut (Remember, God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts) but I would like to hope the person that I spend my mortal life with has some faith in an afterlife. What's the point of living if it all ends in mortal death?
-Sexuality...I can't/couldn't be with a guy who has a sex-is-icky mentality. I believe that sex can make or break some relationships, and that may sound superficial, but it's the truth. I won't make qualifications on this like if he suddenly becomes a paraplegic and can't have sex, what would I do then? etc, etc. It is what it is.
-Compassion...My ideal guy would understand that sometimes I'm going to be the biggest cunt in the world when I'm over-exaggerating and feel like everything in my life is going to hell in a hand basket. He won't kick puppies or be judgmental. He'll be accepting. He'll be loving, and kind, and sweet.
-Curious...I like a man who never stops, thinking, researching, finding.
Physical
Here's where it'll get superficial, but it's MY fantasy, dammit.
-Irish accent...Yeah, you read that correctly. I love Irish accents, they're fucking hot. I want an Irishman who ends all of his flirtations with "darlin'" or "love."
-Thick, dark hair....it's so hot to me when a guy is going down on me and I can pull on his hair and run my fingers through it...mmmm.
-Bright eyes...not any particular color, but they just have a sparkle in them, a fleck of color that catches me when I see him.
-Height...mostly just taller than me, which isn't a whole lot of height. Anything taller than 5'10, but of course, on the flip side, shorter than 6'10. haha
-Muscular....Six pack abs are not necessary. Actually, the only part of the body that I love on a guy to be muscular are his arms and back. It makes me think of Mr. Temper....insert twitch of pussy here...
-Tattooed...I have an odd fascination with tattooed men....again, thinking of Mr. Temper. Maybe it's because he went though a certain amount of physical pain to get them? I'm not sure. I just know that it makes me wet to see a guy with a muscular back decorated with a tattoo.
-Big hands...to run over my body, to comfort me when I need it, to work around the house with.
-Should I mention his dick here? Maybe that would be crossing the line..........
-Athletic....I like to be outside, I like to play basketball, volleyball, even play catch. I also like to fish and camp...all of which need some amount of athleticism.
-Last, but certainly not least, an ass that looks amazing in a pair of tight Wranglers. Think Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise...mmmm baby.
Odds and Ends...little quirks that I find attractive
-knows how to handle things around the house. Maybe this is because I see my dad fix everything around the house, but I always thought my dream man would be able to fix a running toilet, or fix a leak in the roof.
-Playfulness...whether it's tickle fights in bed on Sunday morning or smacking my ass during sex, playfulness keeps a person and a relationship fresh.
-Eclectic...in his music, art, movie, whatever. I like a lot of variety in my life
-Can cook.....seriously, a guy that can cook is hot, just because I love to cook, so doing this activity with my man is always fun and has led to some great memories.
-Wants a bazillion kids...I'm the type of girl that feels the need to make babies and lots of them. Damn overpopulation. Maybe it's because I have a big family and want my kids to be able to rely on their siblings, cousins, parents, aunts, and uncles like I can.
Well, I've about run out of ideas or thoughts. It was actually a lot more difficult to write it all down then just let the thoughts run randomly through my head. Maybe now that it's written down, he'll appear tomorrow in my 10am class and it'll be love at first sight. Maybe I'm just a kid with a lot of fanciful dreams and not enough to occupy my mind. (Don't tell my teachers, please).
Friday, September 12, 2008
Pathetic ego booster
I'm not going to lie or sugar coat it...I did it. I committed an act that is just as bad as fishing for compliments. I went on Craigs' List. You might not know what this is, but basically it's a website for everything that involves personal ads. You can get anything from tickets to a ball game, to an autographed picture of Jerry Seinfeld, to sex. Yes, sex. No, I didn't proposition anyone. No, I don't plan on meeting anyone from the Internet. If you want to know the truth, I did it out of curiosity. I wanted to see how many responses I would get out of a generic little blurb that I wrote about myself in about a minute and a half. I wanted my ego stroked, is that so bad? I mean something around here needed to be stroked, so ego it is.
I posted my highly uninteresting, highly typical post before dinner. As of 9:30pm, I had gotten nine responses. Many of them disturbing. Some of them interesting. One of them insulting. I'm staying in this rainy Friday night, mostly because I have an assload of homework to do and I'm partying tomorrow. You know, I try to keep these things in moderation. So, in my procrastination, I was on Wikipedia, jumping around all over the place, from hyperlink to hyperlink when I arrived at the Wiki page for Craigs' List. Thus began my adventure.
I began emailing some guy, who is apparently 24, or at least claims to be, who is employed at a bank, enjoys the same sports teams as I do, etc. etc. He seems cool. Eww..did I really just write that someone who I haven't even met seems cool? Like, totally gag me (Sorry, I had to go all Clueless on that one). So, we're talking and everything between my writing a paper on how I would format my ideal "Republic" (read-I was assigned to compare and contrast my ideas of an Utopia with the ideas of Plato's as described in his Republic).
Mr. E-mail, asked for a picture. Here's where the trouble begins. It's not that I have a problem sharing my picture or anything, it's just that I have this weird paranoia that at best is a quirk and at worst is me being neurotic that it will end up being someone I know on the other end of the computer. That would be....embarassing, I guess. I mean, how do you approach someone that you know who you "found" on some convoluted dating site when you see them. Pretend you don't see them, that would be my solution. Or worse yet, what if I send him my picture and he all the sudden shows up on my doorstep? I know, that's a pretty far stretch, but shit like that happens. Shit, this was all for fun and procrastination, not for sending pictures.
Why do I get myself into these predicaments? Oh well. What's the worst that could happen? A small voice in my head already answered that, by the way. It said, "Umm, he turns into a stalker that slashes your tires and ends up in the backseat of your car with a bottle of honey and some feathers and has the voice of the pedophile on 'Family Guy'." Uhhh...
So, I asked him to send me his picture first. There's a solution to everything...well, at least temporarily.
I posted my highly uninteresting, highly typical post before dinner. As of 9:30pm, I had gotten nine responses. Many of them disturbing. Some of them interesting. One of them insulting. I'm staying in this rainy Friday night, mostly because I have an assload of homework to do and I'm partying tomorrow. You know, I try to keep these things in moderation. So, in my procrastination, I was on Wikipedia, jumping around all over the place, from hyperlink to hyperlink when I arrived at the Wiki page for Craigs' List. Thus began my adventure.
I began emailing some guy, who is apparently 24, or at least claims to be, who is employed at a bank, enjoys the same sports teams as I do, etc. etc. He seems cool. Eww..did I really just write that someone who I haven't even met seems cool? Like, totally gag me (Sorry, I had to go all Clueless on that one). So, we're talking and everything between my writing a paper on how I would format my ideal "Republic" (read-I was assigned to compare and contrast my ideas of an Utopia with the ideas of Plato's as described in his Republic).
Mr. E-mail, asked for a picture. Here's where the trouble begins. It's not that I have a problem sharing my picture or anything, it's just that I have this weird paranoia that at best is a quirk and at worst is me being neurotic that it will end up being someone I know on the other end of the computer. That would be....embarassing, I guess. I mean, how do you approach someone that you know who you "found" on some convoluted dating site when you see them. Pretend you don't see them, that would be my solution. Or worse yet, what if I send him my picture and he all the sudden shows up on my doorstep? I know, that's a pretty far stretch, but shit like that happens. Shit, this was all for fun and procrastination, not for sending pictures.
Why do I get myself into these predicaments? Oh well. What's the worst that could happen? A small voice in my head already answered that, by the way. It said, "Umm, he turns into a stalker that slashes your tires and ends up in the backseat of your car with a bottle of honey and some feathers and has the voice of the pedophile on 'Family Guy'." Uhhh...
So, I asked him to send me his picture first. There's a solution to everything...well, at least temporarily.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
What I Actually Do When I'm Supposed to be Reading Hamlet.
To be or not to be, that is the question. Oh fucking A, Hamlet, you're one indecisive son of a gun, aren't ya? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Shakespeare, but I'm just not into Hamlet right now. I'm too horny to read anything besides a porno magazine. So, instead of reading Hamlet this afternoon, I checked my fantasy football team, affectionately known as the Cunt Punters. Sufficiently dirty, yet football appropriate.
Yes, you read correctly...I'm a proud fantasy football player. I'm the only girl I know who does this, but I'm sure there's many out there. See, I love football. I love the atmosphere of going to a football game, whether it's a pee-wee Pop Warner team, or going to my favorite NFL team's game. (It's the Chicago Bears, duh)I love football season. I love how when football season starts, the weather starts to turn crisper and the leaves become crunchy. I love how I can wear all my Bears or Notre Dame apparel on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays. I like arguing with my friends from out of state about why the Bears are the best team in NFL history.
Football is being able to talk a bunch of smack about your favorite team or about the team you hate the most and praying that their actions during the game backs up your argument. It's about a little girl bonding with her dad as he explains the game to her. Or in my case, a fourteen year old girl who goes to the school nurse insisting that she's ill, calls her mother to pick her up from school, then calls her dad at work to beg him to take her an hour away to meet her favorite football star. That's a true story, one of my favorite memories. Although now I look at it a bit differently....like what I would have said/done if my father wasn't present, ahem, but oh well. At least I can say that my favorite #54 loved my nail polish (yeah, it's true, he said it).
Football is relaxing with your friends, enjoying a beer, and praying for a safety when the other team is pinned deep in their own territory. It's about enduring the freezing cold weather and trying to fit your ten layers of clothes clad ass into the stadium seats mid-January. It's about making best friends with the drunk dudes in front of you who apologize for swearing in the presence of a "lady," but, dammit, that call was such fucking bullshit.
Ahhh, I love football.
Yes, you read correctly...I'm a proud fantasy football player. I'm the only girl I know who does this, but I'm sure there's many out there. See, I love football. I love the atmosphere of going to a football game, whether it's a pee-wee Pop Warner team, or going to my favorite NFL team's game. (It's the Chicago Bears, duh)I love football season. I love how when football season starts, the weather starts to turn crisper and the leaves become crunchy. I love how I can wear all my Bears or Notre Dame apparel on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays. I like arguing with my friends from out of state about why the Bears are the best team in NFL history.
Football is being able to talk a bunch of smack about your favorite team or about the team you hate the most and praying that their actions during the game backs up your argument. It's about a little girl bonding with her dad as he explains the game to her. Or in my case, a fourteen year old girl who goes to the school nurse insisting that she's ill, calls her mother to pick her up from school, then calls her dad at work to beg him to take her an hour away to meet her favorite football star. That's a true story, one of my favorite memories. Although now I look at it a bit differently....like what I would have said/done if my father wasn't present, ahem, but oh well. At least I can say that my favorite #54 loved my nail polish (yeah, it's true, he said it).
Football is relaxing with your friends, enjoying a beer, and praying for a safety when the other team is pinned deep in their own territory. It's about enduring the freezing cold weather and trying to fit your ten layers of clothes clad ass into the stadium seats mid-January. It's about making best friends with the drunk dudes in front of you who apologize for swearing in the presence of a "lady," but, dammit, that call was such fucking bullshit.
Ahhh, I love football.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thank God for Breaks between Classes
I think I may have some type of syndrome where I have too much of whatever hormone that causes horniness. I was in class, a class being taught by a nun, no less, and I started getting incredibly horny. I don't remember what we were really talking about during class because I obviously had my mind elsewhere. The guy next to me was looking very sexy today and I kept leaning back in my chair to take peeks at his crotch. Seriously, what's wrong with me? I started thinking about the size of his cock and what it would be like to have him in my bed. I could feel myself getting really wet and dying to get to my room so that I could take care of it. I needed to masturbate like nobody's business.
I got to my room, kicked off my shoes, and typed in my favorite porn website. Finally, some relief was in sight. I browsed the titles on the page: "Hot brunette gets her mouth fucked," hmmm..that shows some promise. "Tiny Asian slut takes monster cock," eh..not really in the mood for Asian porn. "Head Coach fucks busty cheerleader," ah haa, there's the one. I clicked on it and waited anxiously for it to load. Jesus Christ, high speed Internet my ass, let's get this thing moving, I only have twenty minutes left before I have to leave for class. It buffered about a quarter of the way when I pressed play. It got right to the action, obviously I picked the right one for the situation.
All the sudden it stopped, a stuttering motion happening when the cheerleader bent down to give the coach head. WHAT THE FUCK!!!? Come on, Internet, don't fail me now. I tried to pause it to let it buffer again. No luck. You son of a fucking bitch. I tapped my laptop to no avail. Fuckkkkkkkkk. I hate when my porn doesn't work. It gets me so excited and then it fails miserably. I was forced to use my imagination now, which is good and fine, but I was in the mood for some hot, nasty, quick porn. Looks like the guy sitting next to me in class would have to suffice. Although I bet he never did anything in real life that he did in my mind. He loved it in my mind. I'm a fan of corrupting innocent looking boys, if you haven't noticed. Even if it's only in my mind, I like to then look at them in a way that usually makes them blush and look away when I see them after I've had my way with them in my fantasies.
It hasn't even been long since I've gotten some action, so the saying "desperate times calls for desperate measures" shouldn't apply here, but I feel my cooch screaming it at me. We'll see what I can do tonight, cooch. Hopefully I'll find something to take the edge off.
I got to my room, kicked off my shoes, and typed in my favorite porn website. Finally, some relief was in sight. I browsed the titles on the page: "Hot brunette gets her mouth fucked," hmmm..that shows some promise. "Tiny Asian slut takes monster cock," eh..not really in the mood for Asian porn. "Head Coach fucks busty cheerleader," ah haa, there's the one. I clicked on it and waited anxiously for it to load. Jesus Christ, high speed Internet my ass, let's get this thing moving, I only have twenty minutes left before I have to leave for class. It buffered about a quarter of the way when I pressed play. It got right to the action, obviously I picked the right one for the situation.
All the sudden it stopped, a stuttering motion happening when the cheerleader bent down to give the coach head. WHAT THE FUCK!!!? Come on, Internet, don't fail me now. I tried to pause it to let it buffer again. No luck. You son of a fucking bitch. I tapped my laptop to no avail. Fuckkkkkkkkk. I hate when my porn doesn't work. It gets me so excited and then it fails miserably. I was forced to use my imagination now, which is good and fine, but I was in the mood for some hot, nasty, quick porn. Looks like the guy sitting next to me in class would have to suffice. Although I bet he never did anything in real life that he did in my mind. He loved it in my mind. I'm a fan of corrupting innocent looking boys, if you haven't noticed. Even if it's only in my mind, I like to then look at them in a way that usually makes them blush and look away when I see them after I've had my way with them in my fantasies.
It hasn't even been long since I've gotten some action, so the saying "desperate times calls for desperate measures" shouldn't apply here, but I feel my cooch screaming it at me. We'll see what I can do tonight, cooch. Hopefully I'll find something to take the edge off.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
New Outfit Time.
I'm a poor college student, but I'm willing to drop a pretty penny on the perfect outfit for this special occasion. What occasion, might you ask? The Metallica concert.....hellllllll fucking yesssss! The last time Metallica played in Chicago was almost five years ago, and my parents wouldn't let me go to the concert, not because of their music, but because of the people I wanted to go with. I was a little outraged, but I was patient. And now the time has finally come for me to see my favorite band live. When I found out about the concert, I immediately started asking some of my close friends to go with me. "Metallica? I don't even like them." "I'm not going to spend that much money on a concert." "That sounds like it will give me a headache." These responses made me question why I was friends with these people. I looked at them with shock and disgust. I tried to persuade them with a simple, "But...it's fucking Metallica!" I wasn't successful in my persuasion.
I tried to understand where they were coming from. They probably didn't have a childhood like mine in relation to the music that they listened to. The first song that I ever loved to the point that I had to listen to it everyday was "Big Balls" by AC/DC. There I was, in pigtails and a pink sweat suit outfit (all the rage in those days), singing "I've got big balls, they're such big balls, and they're dirty big balls, and he's got big balls, and she's got big balls." My parents laughed delightedly when I'd sing in front of their friends, so I just assumed that everyone loved that song because it rocked so fucking hard. I was five and I knew that it rocked.
As I got older, my parents introduced me to Guns 'n Roses, Motley Crue, Jimi Hendrix, Van Halen (dad's favorite), Prince (...mom's favorite...don't ask), Rush, Journey, Aerosmith, Bob Seger, so many bands and artists that rocked. Very few of my friends ever liked my taste in music besides my best friend, who had very similar parents. Before basketball and softball games, I'd listen to Iron Maiden, Metallica, Judas Priest, anything that I could get pumped with. Some of the girls would tap me on the shoulder and ask for a listen and I would happily oblige, hoping to broaden their musical horizons. They'd put the headphone over their ears and I'd press play on my portable CD player. Their eyes would usually (not always) bulge open and quickly take the headphones off and hand them back to me. "What is that? Goth music? That's scary....don't you have another CD?"
No bitch, I don't. No bitch, it's not goth music, what the fuck is goth music anyway, Marilyn Manson? I'm not fond of his work, but I don't label everyone that listens to his music as goth. I didn't care that they didn't like my music because I knew it was classic.
In fact, the first time I ever gave a guy a blow job, it was to the sound of "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath. I looked up at him with his cock in my mouth and smiled with my eyes. Well, he must totally deserve this BJ because he's a Sabbath fan, right? Well, that's what I told myself. That and he was hot. After we were done, I complimented his choice of music. He looked at me and asked if I knew the band's name, perhaps figuring that I was just making small talk. Duh. I answered correctly and his mouth dropped a little as he inquired into what other bands I liked. As I listed them off, he kept nodding emphatically. "You're, like, the coolest chick evvvvvver." I know, sweetie. I give good head and I like metal...a great combination for a sixteen year old guy whose idea of rebelling is to sneak booze to football games and then get some action on the living room couch before his mom comes home from her job at the hospital.
I still pretty much like the same music, although I do have some other favorites, too. Like Bach. No, I don't mean Sebastian Bach (who I hear has a small dick). I mean Johann Sebastian Bach. I like Antonio Vivaldi, some Mozart, and Irish fiddle music. I like Bob Marley and Christina Aguilera, and sometimes when I'm feeling really pissed, Alanis Morissette. But my heart will always be with metal and classic rock.
So, about that outfit I mentioned above....I'm thinking stiletto boots, tight jeans, a black fitted t-shirt, and big sex hair. The concert might be so awesome and rock so hard that I will experience immaculate conception and birth James Hetfield's fourth child...I'm just throwing that out there now.
I tried to understand where they were coming from. They probably didn't have a childhood like mine in relation to the music that they listened to. The first song that I ever loved to the point that I had to listen to it everyday was "Big Balls" by AC/DC. There I was, in pigtails and a pink sweat suit outfit (all the rage in those days), singing "I've got big balls, they're such big balls, and they're dirty big balls, and he's got big balls, and she's got big balls." My parents laughed delightedly when I'd sing in front of their friends, so I just assumed that everyone loved that song because it rocked so fucking hard. I was five and I knew that it rocked.
As I got older, my parents introduced me to Guns 'n Roses, Motley Crue, Jimi Hendrix, Van Halen (dad's favorite), Prince (...mom's favorite...don't ask), Rush, Journey, Aerosmith, Bob Seger, so many bands and artists that rocked. Very few of my friends ever liked my taste in music besides my best friend, who had very similar parents. Before basketball and softball games, I'd listen to Iron Maiden, Metallica, Judas Priest, anything that I could get pumped with. Some of the girls would tap me on the shoulder and ask for a listen and I would happily oblige, hoping to broaden their musical horizons. They'd put the headphone over their ears and I'd press play on my portable CD player. Their eyes would usually (not always) bulge open and quickly take the headphones off and hand them back to me. "What is that? Goth music? That's scary....don't you have another CD?"
No bitch, I don't. No bitch, it's not goth music, what the fuck is goth music anyway, Marilyn Manson? I'm not fond of his work, but I don't label everyone that listens to his music as goth. I didn't care that they didn't like my music because I knew it was classic.
In fact, the first time I ever gave a guy a blow job, it was to the sound of "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath. I looked up at him with his cock in my mouth and smiled with my eyes. Well, he must totally deserve this BJ because he's a Sabbath fan, right? Well, that's what I told myself. That and he was hot. After we were done, I complimented his choice of music. He looked at me and asked if I knew the band's name, perhaps figuring that I was just making small talk. Duh. I answered correctly and his mouth dropped a little as he inquired into what other bands I liked. As I listed them off, he kept nodding emphatically. "You're, like, the coolest chick evvvvvver." I know, sweetie. I give good head and I like metal...a great combination for a sixteen year old guy whose idea of rebelling is to sneak booze to football games and then get some action on the living room couch before his mom comes home from her job at the hospital.
I still pretty much like the same music, although I do have some other favorites, too. Like Bach. No, I don't mean Sebastian Bach (who I hear has a small dick). I mean Johann Sebastian Bach. I like Antonio Vivaldi, some Mozart, and Irish fiddle music. I like Bob Marley and Christina Aguilera, and sometimes when I'm feeling really pissed, Alanis Morissette. But my heart will always be with metal and classic rock.
So, about that outfit I mentioned above....I'm thinking stiletto boots, tight jeans, a black fitted t-shirt, and big sex hair. The concert might be so awesome and rock so hard that I will experience immaculate conception and birth James Hetfield's fourth child...I'm just throwing that out there now.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Well It's a Good Thing I Didn't Get Attached or Anything
I'm feeling a little embarrassed as well as a teeny bit hurt. What other outcome did I expect from hooking up with someone who I even nicknamed douchebag? I haven't heard from him in a few days, which usually doesn't phase me, but I have the feeling that nothing else is going to happen with him. Should I be grateful that it stopped before it started? Maybe. So you might be wondering why I'm feeling this way all the sudden. Well, it's Facebook's fault. You see, if Facebook didn't update me with what this chick has been writing on douchebag's wall...I wouldn't be feeling this way. But, no, Facebook has made me a stalker of people in general. So there I was, creepin' on his Facebook page when I notice that there are some flirty comments from some chick and a mention of a girl's name who I know douchebag had a thing for in the past. Ahhh.....fuck. Don't you hate it when someone you don't even know ruins something that is going on in your life? I was under the impression that he was done with her because she gave him the "let's be best friends" speech, but I suppose she's just too tempting to let go of, which I can understand, because there are two guys in my life that I would probably drop anyone for if they showed interest.
Now there's slim chance of a consistent hook up there, much less anything more, not that I even know if I wanted more. Is this indecisiveness really inherit in women because if so I wish I was a fucking dude.
Underneath the explanations above, it really comes down to pride. My pride is injured right now because I got rejected, so now the 14 year old girl in me is looking in the mirror and poking herself asking "what the fuck's wrong with me that turned him off" and the 20 year old is saying "fuck him, let's eat some Oreos and get drunk."
Now there's slim chance of a consistent hook up there, much less anything more, not that I even know if I wanted more. Is this indecisiveness really inherit in women because if so I wish I was a fucking dude.
Underneath the explanations above, it really comes down to pride. My pride is injured right now because I got rejected, so now the 14 year old girl in me is looking in the mirror and poking herself asking "what the fuck's wrong with me that turned him off" and the 20 year old is saying "fuck him, let's eat some Oreos and get drunk."
Monday, September 1, 2008
Happy Fucking Anniversary
Today is my parents' 24th wedding anniversary. I'm going to go ahead and be a Debbie Downer because I'm a bitch and it's my blog, motherfuckers. As much as I'm glad that my parents are both healthy and together on their 24th anniversary, I can't help but think about another anniversary today. It's been almost three years since my family found out that my dad was having an affair. For some reason, whenever I think about it or write about it, I feel my stomach acid start to churn and try to fight its way up my esophagus and expel itself as if the purge would lighten the burden of the memory. It's not easy to admit that your family is flawed in such an intimate way, but the anonymity of the Internet makes it doable.
It's not just the thought of my dad being with another woman that bothers me anymore. It's the deceitfulness that feels like a punch in the gut that makes me unable to breathe when I'm reminded of the event. It's knowing that it wasn't just a one night stand, but a relationship that he had with someone besides the mother of his children. I'm not naive, I know these things happen, but that doesn't make it any easier to digest.
I'll always remember the first time I saw my dad after I knew. He's a firefighter, so he works 24 hours on call and then has 48 hours off. The day that we found out for sure, my dad was at the firehouse. I awoke to the phone ringing and my mom left a message saying that. "I took your sister to school, if dad comes home tell him to stay there until I get back." Just as I pushed the delete button, my dad walked in the door. I looked at him in disgust because that's truly how I felt. I started walking away and my dad cried. There have been very few times that I've seen my father cry, actually I can only think of two right now: When my buschia (Polish for grandma, but our family used it for grandma and great-grandma in this instance) died, my dad cried as he kissed her for the last time. I was eleven when this happened and I remember thinking that my dad must be thinking about all the memories that he had of her as every grandchild does of their grandma. The other instance of my dad crying was when my gram died, his mother-in-law. She had been living with us for her last two years and we had all bonded even more so when she moved in.
The most recent incidence of my dad crying was when I turned my back on him because of what he did to our family.
"What? Are you not going to talk to me?" He whispered. I only shook my head as the tears started rolling down my cheeks.
"This has nothing to do with you guys (talking about my sisters and me). It's about me and your mom..it's not your fault, you didn't do anything wrong." This seemed too generic, too cliche for my dad to be saying.
"Did you sleep with her?"
"No..I did not," he said with such force that I believed him.
My mom later took him to take a lie detector test that he failed. She had to humiliate herself by getting tested for STDs because apparently my dad didn't practice "safe-sex" with the whore he slept with. I call her a whore not because she was my dad's mistress, but because she was also the mistress of half the city's policemen and firemen. I remember hearing about her, mostly because her son is a year younger than me and his mother had fucked his best friend's dad when they were in sixth grade. The gossip got around at school and I felt bad for both of the boys.
But, three years later, my parents are still married. I've woken up in the middle of the night with the urge to check my parents' room to see if my mom was still here. I've had the fear, however irrational at times, that my mom would leave in the middle of the night and that I would never hear from her again. I'm almost 21 years old and I still have this fear, even though I only live under the same roof three months out of the year. Sometimes I think they'll be together forever if for no other reason that they are comfortable with each other. I have forgiven my dad for his mistakes just as I would hope to be forgiven for mine.
I try to see my mom the way that she was before my dad killed a piece of her, but it's so easy to see through her masquerade. I can't fix things for her and I never could, which hurts immensely. I know, I know...it's not my place as the child to take care of my mother, but there's a part of me that just wants to protect people and to make them as happy as possible. Who would want their mother to suffer? The odd part about this is that I hardly ever think of my dad's suffering. I'm positive that there is deep suffering under his macho exterior, but his Catholic, old-fashioned, men don't feel emotions, upbringing causes him to bury them away until a certain event allows him the social acceptance of showing that he feels and hurts like any other human being. I just wish it didn't take him fucking another woman to realize what he had at home. Not only a wife who loves him, but three daughters who adore him even though we may be bitches at times.
As anyone who has gone through junior high or high school knows, the main talk of those four years is who is sleeping with who. I usually was oblivious to this talk because I was only concerned about myself (I'm a cunt, I told you that). However, there were some instances when I would join in the conversation. I would always say the same thing: "It's not her fault, she probably has daddy issues." By this, I meant that either the girl was a slut because she 1) had no father figure, 2) her father was an adulterer, or 3) her father either hugged her too much or not enough. Although I still believe that there is some truth to my theories, at night I pray that no one will ever say that about my little sister, even though her dad was an adulterer.
It's not just the thought of my dad being with another woman that bothers me anymore. It's the deceitfulness that feels like a punch in the gut that makes me unable to breathe when I'm reminded of the event. It's knowing that it wasn't just a one night stand, but a relationship that he had with someone besides the mother of his children. I'm not naive, I know these things happen, but that doesn't make it any easier to digest.
I'll always remember the first time I saw my dad after I knew. He's a firefighter, so he works 24 hours on call and then has 48 hours off. The day that we found out for sure, my dad was at the firehouse. I awoke to the phone ringing and my mom left a message saying that. "I took your sister to school, if dad comes home tell him to stay there until I get back." Just as I pushed the delete button, my dad walked in the door. I looked at him in disgust because that's truly how I felt. I started walking away and my dad cried. There have been very few times that I've seen my father cry, actually I can only think of two right now: When my buschia (Polish for grandma, but our family used it for grandma and great-grandma in this instance) died, my dad cried as he kissed her for the last time. I was eleven when this happened and I remember thinking that my dad must be thinking about all the memories that he had of her as every grandchild does of their grandma. The other instance of my dad crying was when my gram died, his mother-in-law. She had been living with us for her last two years and we had all bonded even more so when she moved in.
The most recent incidence of my dad crying was when I turned my back on him because of what he did to our family.
"What? Are you not going to talk to me?" He whispered. I only shook my head as the tears started rolling down my cheeks.
"This has nothing to do with you guys (talking about my sisters and me). It's about me and your mom..it's not your fault, you didn't do anything wrong." This seemed too generic, too cliche for my dad to be saying.
"Did you sleep with her?"
"No..I did not," he said with such force that I believed him.
My mom later took him to take a lie detector test that he failed. She had to humiliate herself by getting tested for STDs because apparently my dad didn't practice "safe-sex" with the whore he slept with. I call her a whore not because she was my dad's mistress, but because she was also the mistress of half the city's policemen and firemen. I remember hearing about her, mostly because her son is a year younger than me and his mother had fucked his best friend's dad when they were in sixth grade. The gossip got around at school and I felt bad for both of the boys.
But, three years later, my parents are still married. I've woken up in the middle of the night with the urge to check my parents' room to see if my mom was still here. I've had the fear, however irrational at times, that my mom would leave in the middle of the night and that I would never hear from her again. I'm almost 21 years old and I still have this fear, even though I only live under the same roof three months out of the year. Sometimes I think they'll be together forever if for no other reason that they are comfortable with each other. I have forgiven my dad for his mistakes just as I would hope to be forgiven for mine.
I try to see my mom the way that she was before my dad killed a piece of her, but it's so easy to see through her masquerade. I can't fix things for her and I never could, which hurts immensely. I know, I know...it's not my place as the child to take care of my mother, but there's a part of me that just wants to protect people and to make them as happy as possible. Who would want their mother to suffer? The odd part about this is that I hardly ever think of my dad's suffering. I'm positive that there is deep suffering under his macho exterior, but his Catholic, old-fashioned, men don't feel emotions, upbringing causes him to bury them away until a certain event allows him the social acceptance of showing that he feels and hurts like any other human being. I just wish it didn't take him fucking another woman to realize what he had at home. Not only a wife who loves him, but three daughters who adore him even though we may be bitches at times.
As anyone who has gone through junior high or high school knows, the main talk of those four years is who is sleeping with who. I usually was oblivious to this talk because I was only concerned about myself (I'm a cunt, I told you that). However, there were some instances when I would join in the conversation. I would always say the same thing: "It's not her fault, she probably has daddy issues." By this, I meant that either the girl was a slut because she 1) had no father figure, 2) her father was an adulterer, or 3) her father either hugged her too much or not enough. Although I still believe that there is some truth to my theories, at night I pray that no one will ever say that about my little sister, even though her dad was an adulterer.
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