is it really such a bad thing?

I’m so full of shit. I say I want a nice guy. But I don’t. I say I don’t want another douche bag. But I totally do.

I’m a douche. I get that. I’ll never deny that. And thus being a douche I cannot be with an undouche dude. You drive me crazy. I like politeness…but overly nice? Come on! Stand up for yourself while I’m calling you retarded.

It’s very off-putting when you don’t, retard.

To be perfectly honest I don’t want any guy. In the sense that I don’t want anything serious. I like the guys that I hook up with…I wouldn’t hook up with them if I didn’t.

They are usually pretty good friends. (I have a very bad habit of sleeping with friends, actually…) But it’s just so fucking convenient!

You’re comfortable enough with them so you can laugh at their hilarious sex faces (which come on, everyone’s sex face is HI-larious…its all serious and shit) yet not close enough that you don’t feel bad not leaving a note explaining where you went… when they finally decide to wake up from your bed…or feel bad for not driving them home afterwards…

…it’s called the walk of shame for a reason…because I am ashamed to drive you home after we bone…people don’t need to know my business…even if I may blog about it two days later.

…and it always leads to the most hilarious early morning texts… “I hope I was a disappointment.”

Is that selfish? Oh most definitely.

Side note: I just sneezed all over this post…god damnit…I hate nature. I’m outside while I’m writing this…well technically I’m in my car with the windows open (don’t ask) but that is close enough.

I guess what my real question is…is that such a bad thing? Does it make me less of a person not wanting to be with someone? At least I’m honest about it. I know a lot of people (especially women) look down upon this. But I know what I want…and a relationship just isn’t it.

Sometimes I feel like too much emphasis is put on love. Why do we have to constantly search for the one we want to love? Why can’t we search for the one thing that we love to do? Maybe I’m just lucky, and I’ve found the one thing that I’m inconceivably in love with pretty early in life.

Maybe I’m just too pessimistic for my own good…and for that I blame Katherine Heigel…that little bitch.

hmmm...this doesn't seem right..

My parents have been happily married for 33 years…disgusting, I know. Every time they kiss in my presence I want to vomit (and I usually do).

True love is so 90s, yet they seem immune to the social norms of our society…lame.

But what really confuses me is the adverse affect this situation has seemed to have had on my general psyche; my parents 33 years of happy fidelity has produced a “fear of intimacy”, with a smidge of “fear of commitment” and a dab of “narcissim” with just a splash of “gassiness” within my black soul.

I mean, come on, I have a fucking blog…so yes, one can safely assume I am a narcissistic lady douche (with bad gas)… not that I would know or anything.

Any who, this douche (me) has an intimacy problem…and it’s gotten bad.

I can’t even stay in the same bed with a guy I just had sex with anymore. I usually try to kick the guy out right after the deed, but a couple of them caught on and pretended to be “asleep” as I profusely kicked them in the kidneys…those selfish bastards.

I have an issue and I am aware of that. I purposely go out of my way to find men that are emotionally unavailable, because I am one of them….small penis and all.

And for the most part, I don’t have an issue with this issue, unless I’m going through a dry spell, then I get pissed I don’t have a guy who is legally forced to have sex with me based soley on the fact that he is my boyfriend.

Most women are more emotional about sex than I am too, supposedly they even have a different word for it… they call it, love-making or even worse…cuddling.

And let me be frank, but the thought of cuddling makes me gassy. The act of cuddling makes me gassy. Skittles after this so called “love-making” makes me gassy. So me kicking a dude out of my bed after sex, isn’t necessarily an intimacy issue it’s more of a “get the fuck out of my bed, or I’ma cut you and then fart into your flesh wound” issue.

…Whatever, it’s my fucking bed…house rules.

I feel like I've talked about this before...

...but this is the cockatoo that I hate...





...and yes that is totally my valley girl voice in the background...and that's totally my mom too...I hope you enjoyed my rap.

ok so i'm totally calling this now...

I’m calling it now… I’m totally going to be a home wrecker in the next ten years…. I like dad’s way too much for the average girl.

I don’t know what it is but I find them irresistible, with their permanent five o’clock shadows, and their receding hairlines. And oh dear god if they drink keystone light from the can, screw me now.

The sad thing is, I’m not being sarcastic. I’m attracted to dads, older men, geriatrics one might say. But I shit you not, if any of you try to even touch my father…I will eat your face, whore. My father is a saint, bitches. A saint.

I was walking down the street the other day and I passed a balding 40ish man and smiled to myself and thought, “Hmm, I really don’t have any standards, do I?”

I actually was thinking about having sex with this man. This balding, pot-bellied man. I didn’t even know if he was rich yet.

To explain him accurately he looked like a mix of Jim Gaffigan and Louis C.K., funny men, yes. Hot, attractive, sexually suitable for most women? Aw, hellllllll no.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a gold-digger. And I’m sure as hell not ugly. Cute, some say. Gorgeous others say when they want head.

Have you ever accidently drooled on a guy’s chest before? Awkward right? Yeah, older guys don’t notice that shit. Usually they think they drooled on themselves. If that doesn’t sound like heaven to you, then you are the fucking devil… the devil.

I think I like the stability of older men. They’ve given up. They understand the unspoken rules. And they know not to deviate from said unsaid rules. That being, I want, what I want, when I want it.

Follow those rules and you’ll get laid. Young men don’t get that. Older men do.

Boom…guess who gets laid.

And guess who got the Bob Evans early bird special this afternoon? This girl bitches.

This girl.

Boys and girls...gather around...

Today I’m going to tell you a story of love and heartache. Of joy and sorry. Of a little girl trying to make it in the world. Yes, today I’m going to tell you about one of the worst days of my life: My first colonoscopy.

And yes, this story ends with a camera shoved up my butt.

My father had colon cancer 10 years ago, so when I saw a massive amount of blood in the toilet one day, you better believe I sat in my room rocking back and forth humming the theme song of Barney.

After 3 hours of hysterical crying, a phone call was made, and a date was set for the butt rape.

The actual procedure (the camera-ass thing) isn’t all that bad, seeing as they dope you up like crazy. It’s the day before, I repeat. The day BEFORE, the prep, that becomes a living hell.

You are presented with a gallon jug and a solution mix (available in a plethora of flavors, orange, blueberry, you’reabouttopeeoutofyourassberry) and must chug the first half of a gallon within 20 minutes. Shit. Then chug the other half, and well, shit some more.

Sounds easy right? Not exactly.

The solution itself is so thick and salty, your brain immediately screams “I’m not swallowing” and you soon find yourself in the fetal position gagging up this “devil’s drink” onto the kitchen floor.

At this point, time was running out, poop was building up, and my dad was screaming at me to man up and chug. My brother told me to start taking the “nectar of death” like a shot. And seeing as I’m a pussy. I attempted to sandwich it.

Orange soda. Witches brew of death. Orange soda.

Didn’t work. I kept hearing these high-pitched screams and then I realized it was me.

Supposedly your body can’t handle that much liquid. A flaw in God’s design, obviously. I had never seen projectile puke until I watched 34 seconds of orange soda escape my mouth like an unruly crowd stampeding toward the entrance of Wal-Mart on black Friday. It wasn’t pretty.

Let’s just say orange soda isn’t my favorite drink and more.

I slept in the bathroom that night. Well, I sat on the commode for 5 hours straight that night. There really was no point in moving. I don’t think I know of any other way to say you literally shit for 24 hours. Literally.

When you arrive to the doctor’s office. They hand you a paper dress and ask you to “relieve yourself once more” which is such a slap in the face. Like I didn’t “relieve myself” 24 hours straight. Mother-fuckers.

Um, well, turned out they were right. There was still some “relieving” to be done.

I walked out of the bathroom, bare-assed and defeated. (Nothing new there, really.)

The anesthesiologist walks in to find me nervously attempting to cover my bare ass from the cold steel, but to no avail.

“Oh don’t worry sweetie, you’re in good hands,” she squealed as she attached the elephant syringe to my IV. “This is the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson. Sleep tight.”

“Wait, w----”

And that was the day I got ass-raped by a camera four days before my 21st birthday.

I'm not a healthy person....

…I get that…and quite honestly it’s the world that’s got an issue…not me.

But come on! It is way to hard to jump on that “I want to lead a healthy lifestyle” bandwagon when you can literally buy ice cream/tacos/tiny polish sausages wrapped in torillas and topped of with bacon bits and a dollop of mayo out of a fucking wagon….and for only a buck too! Well…a $1.50 if you order extra mayo.

And I’m sorry, but any bandwagon that can spray nacho cheese directly into my mouth is the only wagon I ever want to be a part of.

Note to self: When rich enough, buy a wagon that can spray nacho cheese directly into my mouth…that or hire a midget with a Easy Cheez  spray can glued permanently to their left hand, preferably sharp cheddar…or American…I’m not too picky…well maybe rich Natalie  will be picky…we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

…I’m still too cheap to buy a voice recorder, so I’ve been leaving myself “note to self” notes everywhere…and let me tell you they are fucking hilarious to find weeks later after scribbling them down in my half-sleep stupor.

Any who…back to being unhealthy…I’m so disgustingly gross with the shit I eat that I’m currently working on a cookbook titled, “Cooking for Poor People” –which is pretty much whatever I ate my past four years at college… and now…and probably tomorrow.

Other title options…”Mayo for the Masses”…and “Mayo: Your Favorite White Frenemy”

…I’m a product of my environment, alright...deal with it.

And how I’m not morbidly obese I have no fucking clue.

Actually that’s a lie…I do know why I’m not obese…I don’t eat any fucking carbs!

Instead…I mix honey mustard with a shit ton of mayo and use that as a fancy gourmet dipping sauce for roast beef/turkey/Vienna sausages… while reclining on my Ab-Lounge half naked and watching copious amounts of House Hunters International and ending my day with a tall refreshing glass of peanut butter.

…I can just feel George Washington Carver just beaming as I write this post…it’s like I can here him whispering sweetly into my ear…”That’s why I crushed a shit ton of peanuts…I did it for you, my skinny white princess, I did it for you and your low carb diet.”

And for that Mr. Carver…I will forever be indebted.

I can always tell when my lifestyle drives people crazy too…as I simulatenously shove four hotdogs (without a bun) down my gullet while wearing skinny jeans… just to look up and see a gaggle of skinny white girls just glaring at me…hoping…no begging God that my cholesterol is through the roof…or at the very least I’ll be forced to vomit those hot dogs back up at a later date and time.

But I think everyone should remember…healthy and skinny are not synonymous with one another…and I should not be punished with passive aggressive side glares from other skinny white bitches. Look, I figured out a loophole, which allows me to lose weight, while still eating the most disgustingly awesome foods ever.

And that my friends, is how America was won.

In all seriousness…if you want to get laid gentlemen…this is how.

Chivalry is dead. Do you get that? It’s fucking dead. Like it does not exist in our generation. Its definition on urbandictionary.com is an “Asian sexually transmitted disease”. People the age of 17-28 can’t even pronounce chivalry correctly…they get stuck on the second syllable…

“Shhe-viiiii…aw fuck it, I’m going to tell her to eat a dick and then she’ll totally want to bone.”

Side note: This is the real urbandictionary definition….” An idea developed first by Queen Eleanor of England. Basically, it encouraged gentlemanly behavior between knights, and proposed a system of courting ladies to gain their hearts instead of dragging them home by their hair (sarcasm)”

….Like I said…dead.

Side note, side note: If you tell her to eat a dick…she will probably want to bone.

This epiphany occurred to me just recently, when I randomly met a dude that was genuinely polite to me. 

That was it.  He was polite…which equaled me wanting to bone him…immediately…and let me be straight with you…I ooze ‘I’m probably going to be a dick to you’ …so being polite to me really takes some willpower…which makes you seem even hotter….so…um, hello! You are going to get laid, if you are polite to me.

 … now I’ll totally pretend like ‘I’m way too independent to give a shit that you knowingly opened a door for me…on purpose’ but in my head…I’m just picturing all the terrible terrible (terrible in a good way) things I’m going to do to you when we bone…based solely on the fact that you opened a door for me…on fucking purpose!

And yes, I know, I totally just said to be a dick in my previous post. But here’s the thing…being a dick is a short-term solution to a long-term problem. We (ladies) aren’t stupid, and if we are “laughing” at your dicky remarks…it’s probably because we can tell you’re easy and you are the closest guy to us at the moment…so…you’ll do.

Chivalry is like walking around a park with a huge ass puppy…I ain’t frontin’…bitches will be fightin’ to touch your poodle (man junk). And isn’t that all you want?  A bunch of ladies…fighting…in a sexual manner…for poodles (man junk)?

Exactly.

I think I’ve sufficiently made my point. Now go open a door, dick.

well seeing as im an expert and shit...

I think its only right I share my awesome knowledge on dating...


...for the dudes

1.     Be a dick.

…want a lady to love you? Treat her like shit…ignore her phone calls…give her disapproving glances when she doesn’t order the salad like you had recommended…you’ll have her heart for life.

2.     

       Shove a shit ton of meat in your mouth.

…I  honestly can’t think of anything sexier.

3.     

     Pay for her food.

…the more a lady feels like a prostitute…the more likely you and your lady friend will bone you.

4.     Bring condoms.

…it says you're in charge...like, “Hey…the clap doesn't have me....I have the clap.”

5.     Shake your hips excessively while walking.

…look…your lady/man/tranny friend is always going to be judging your sexually “ability” by your swagger….so just shake yo hips…problem solved.

...for the ladies:

1.     
   Don’t be afraid to be a whore…

...We all know that classic saying…“The easy girl catches the worm…or HPV…”   

    Drink. Drink. Drinkity. Drink.

… Anything and everything in your sight. Nothing is more endearing than the sloppy drunk screaming Journey, three octaves too high while simultaneously vomiting on yourself a little bit…and while yes you may not remember anything that happened on that fateful date…your lover friend will never be able to burn that image out of his corneas.

Shove a crap ton of meat in your mouth.

…I honestly can’t think of anything sexier.

   
Let your lady garden grow.

…I honestly can’t think of anything sexier.

Lower your expectations.

…You’re not perfect, babe. Sorry to burst that bubble…but let’s get out of fantasyland and venture into a more realistic setting. This is how mediocrity works in good ol’ Merica.

Jogging around the bases...

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ok, hear me out...

There’s nothing hotter than a boy that’s got his shit together.

Seriously, I’d totally get naked (with the lights off) for a dude that’s got a college degree.

However, I seem to repeatedly find myself involved/infatuated with/stalking a man of the complete opposite of someone who, how do you say “has his or her shit together.”

You know the type…losers/fuck-ups/boys who ask “Who’s Chevy Chase?”

So now after years and years of following the same toxic pattern I decided to do some research on the Google machine and found this:

“Women who follow a specific toxic pattern with fuck ups/losers/assistant manager’s of McDonalds suffer from an insatiable need of dominance,” according to a clinical study that I just made up for this blog post.

This makes sense to me.

…I would also like to point out that I have played with my boobs five times while writing this post. Why, you ask? Well honestly, anytime I get writers block I play with my boobs. And two they are sublime…really…they are…

Seeing as women will never get to experience the insurmountable bliss followed by a sexual facial or as I like to call it “dude jizzing on a hoe’s face.”

Overpowering a man with sure brainpower is quite obviously the next best thing.

For women, the only way to really dominate a man nowadays is by finding one of equal or lesser value, publicly humiliate him…repeatedly, then throwing globs of mayo on his face.

So until America discovers the female equivalent to a facial, I think every woman has the choice…NO…the right! To only choose men who are easily embarrassed by math equations/general social norms/uncontrollable flatulence.

…and still be allowed to throw mayo on their faces.

It’s only fair.

Why shouldn’t I be able allowed to socially demean men with my figurative penis?

…exactly.

i do not want to go to there...

I’m 22 and I’ve never been to the gyno… I know. I know. This is like super duper bad, but come on! Metal-jiggy thingy-mebobber does not make the list of “things I want shoved up my who-hah.”

My mother said I’d either go after I started having sex or when I turned 18.  Well, um, I guess she forgot I turned 18 four years ago and I guess I forgot to call her to tell her the great news…

“Hey mom! Guess what?!? I got laid!”

“This is your father.”

And I don’t have an issue with the doctors, but any time I think about going to the lady doctors, I always have this nightmare that the doc whose checking out my girl-junk will either vomit/fart/post a video on his vlog simultaneously while my legs are strapped in the stirrups of doom…

What if he calls in a nurse? And then another? And then another?!

“Is it moving?”

“I think that’s the black hole Einstein was talking about?”

“Are you sure it was Einstein? I thought it was someone else.”

“Whose the doctor, Stewart? And who’s the male nurse”

“Fuck you.”

Next thing I know NBC/CBS/your fucking noisy as fuck neighbor have swarmed into the back corner of my room, to afraid to get in a 5-foot radius of my who-hah without being sucked into an endless pit a doom…like so many fallen brethren before them.

“Its like a train wreck.”

“I just can’t look away. I just can’t.”

Women are vomiting. Men are screaming. Obama has just issued a state of emergency….for America.

Brian Williams, who seems unable to stop gagging, is reporting live to the nation, no, to the world.

“This is the worst thing since hurricane Katrina. This is worse than New Orleans,” he stops to hold back vomit that has secreted into his mouth.

“World… this is hell.”

I’ll become a novelty. Soon, people will want pictures with my who-hah. T-shirts with my lady-stuff and “I’ve been to hell and survived” printed on the front, will be sold out of rickety-old van for $9.95.

Um…I think you see my dilemma.

Unless I get a cut of the profits, then I’ve got a really good idea for some new products...

All in all, I like to think that a little self-examination with a small hand mirror is all I really need in life. That is all I need right?

Right?!

I feel like I've been kinda of MIA lately...whoopsie

Not going to lie I've been a little distracted...there have just been so many great movies on tv lately...don't pretend like there hasn't been.

...anywho... seeing as I'm creatively tapped out at the moment, I thought I'd tell you a little more about my skill set...besides my wicked awesome humor...heyo!

I graduated college (oh no she didn't!) with a degree in Media Arts and Design...with a concentration in journalism...however during my sophomore year in I learned I hated journalism...all it is, is writing facts down...and I always seemed to get the facts slightly wrong...and I was like...maybe....I shouldn't go into journalism if I can't get the facts completely right...

But the main reason I decided I didn't want to write for a newspaper (because I at first I wanted to be a political writer...I still do...just now a polictal humoritst) because you learned that the government does control journalism...and you never get the full story...and that just wasn't a system I wanted to be a part of.., and plus I want to make people laugh.


HOWEVER! Even though I love to write (comedy) and that is what I hope to one day get paid for (Lorne Michaels) my resume is all photography...and I ain't going to lie...my resume is bitchin'.

 

boom. this is my bestie matt...in my fraybans (fake raybans) and my favorite wig...and yes...I have a favorite wig.

 

Wale!  DC chillin'.

Jason Derulo...also I'm being super lazy and just uploading photos from the same shoot...whatevs.

....so yeah...I don't know why I just forced you to read (skim through) that...but I did...deal with it.