Awwww you guys.....

Well shucks guys, you made me feel so special and important during this Sandy shit, by contacting me to see if I was okay. Except for one specific person and to you I would like to give you a royally huge,

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!"

Damn, that felt good.

And yeah, just in case you were still wondering, it is all good in the hood.

For those of you who don't know I live in NYC but I was actually out of town this weekend for a wake and my parents literally forbade me to travel back to NYC (I was supposed to go back up Monday @ 6a.m.). So this has just turned into a nice little vaycay with the fam. And I actually get along with my parents so it really has been a fun time, filled with booze and booze and um, more booze.

One of my roommates got stuck alone in the apartment, which, fuck, that sucks. And she took a few photos... we live near the east river so yeah...there was some flooding...

Crazy right?! Just some minor flooding on a major avenue and I would like to point out the two people who deemed it necessary to walk through that shit in the second photo...no biggie. But we really lucked out. Lower Manhattan got fuckkkkkkked. (I say this like you haven't been watching the news and didn't already know this....you have been watching the news right? That's okay, me neither.)

But you better have been watching the SVU marathon that was airing alllllll dayyyyyyy yesterday, or you can go to hell you dirty bastard, you.

You know me and the roomie were. 

Side note: I'm the one in green.

Side note, side note: I have an iPhone.

Side note, side note, side note: I have no life.

Did I mention I didn't have a life, and am currently on the hunt for yet another SVU marathon? 

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....I'ma go eat now.

All this Sandy talk reminds me how much I hate flying...

I don’t fly. It’s not my thing. Something about the whole, you may (or may not) fall thousands of feet to your death thing, really freaks me the fuck out.

Now, I did fly this summer, for a reason I am now constantly asked if I regret. And real quick, to get that out of the way, no I do not regret that decision. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

On that same note, I do equally regret it as well, because if I had not flown out, I would still be living in my deluded sense of reality…and it’s just so warm and cozy there!

Any who, now that we have gotten that out of the way, let’s talk about what happens when this girl is put on a plane.

She freaks the fuck out.  Well, no. First, she gets hammered at multiple airport bars and then she freaks the fuck out.

I had consumed about three beers before 11 a.m. when the airport announced that my plane was now boarding.

“Holy shit, this is happening. I’m really doing this,” I said out loud to no one in particular.

I wasn’t ready.

I wanted everything to turn into a blur, and magically fall into my destination’s arms, and then we’d fuck…like, a lot.

Instead, I was pointed in the direction of an open door where I was ushered to the smallest fucking plane I had ever seen in my fucking life. So small in fact, that when I first laid eyes on it, I laughed. Like a, “We are all gunna die” laugh.

There was nothing else to do! Everyone in this sardine plane was going to find out I was crazy soon enough. Might as well get this party started a little bit earlier than planned.

I put my bag on a rickety old cart placed conveniently next to this toy of an airplane, which I was pretty sure was going to get sucked into the jet’s, or some asshole dog was just going to randomly run out and piss all over my shit. Both scenarios I was not okay with.

I sat down in my seat. Still laughing, mind you, to find out my seatmate was a Mr. Chatty Kathy and huge too. (That detail will be important in like 2 seconds.)

The pilot comes on over the speaker, “Good morning, passengers. Thank you for flying, whatever the fuck this airline is, we will be moving momentarily. But we seem to be over our maximum flying weight, and thus must kick a few of you off.”

Hold up.

That’s a thing? You can be over your maximum flying weight? Well that just settled my nerves…or not.

The flight attendants proceeded to kick off three passengers and I was just waiting for the pilot to come over the speakers again and go, “Um, excuse me, but could the passenger next to the crazy lady who won’t stop laughing like a wild banshee, please exit the plane. You’re fucking huge.”

He never did though…but I knew he was thinking it. We all were.

Luckily, this flight lasted for approximately twenty minutes. But I was only halfway done. I would have to step on yet another plane within three hours. And how was this lady supposed to kill three hours in a boring ol’ airport?

“Do you want another beer?”

“No, I’m on my fifth, I shouldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fine, I’ll have another.”

She was a good bartender. So good, that I thought it was an absolute necessity to warn the boy of the impending drunkenness he was about to encounter.

“I’m hammered.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m hammered.”

“Haha well stop drinking and don’t miss your flight.”

“Har. Har. I won’t miss my flight.”

I almost missed my flight.

But don’t you worry folks, I made it on that plane, and definitely made a complete ass out of myself in front of a few (many) strangers. I stumbled into my seat after hitting the same person with my carry-on repeatedly, when I received the loveliest of taps on my shoulder.

“Mmmm, excuse me, but I think you’re in my seat.”

“Yeah? Whatever, I don’t care.”

I wish that was a lie. I wish that was not exactly what the hammered version of myself said to some fucking stranger. Granted, I was hammered, but still, I’m usually a friendly drunk. A befuddled amusement to those around me, some might say, but not a stone-cold bitch.

I moved seats and immediately texted the boy:

“I’m hammered and sitting next to a fucking cunt.”

“You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She smelled too. Did I mention that? I’m pretty sure she hadn’t bathed in 5 to 7 days and decided last minute that that wasn’t socially acceptable to smell this putrid, (which it’s not, annoying cunt I was seated next too), and proceeded to douse herself with J.Lo’s latest perfume endeavor.

ANNNNNNNNNNNNND she didn’t turn off her fucking iPhone off when the pilot made the “no electronic devices” announcement during lift off.

I was not a happy camper.

Thank fucking god, the amount of alcohol running through my blood system paired with the high altitude slowly placed myself into a snore-filled coma for about two hours. We arrived in what literally felt like five minutes.

Fuck.

I was so not ready for this shit. My whole body was shaking. I ran into the bathroom, with no real need to pee. I just wanted to sit and calm the fuck down. But he didn’t give me the chance; he called.

“Where are you?”

“…I’m here.”

You're the real-life Liz Lemon, aren't you?

I once received a text out of the blue (well not really out of the blue, but just kind of random) from a boy who liked me, saying: “You really are the real-life Liz Lemon, aren’t you?”

Side note: He used proper punctuation via text and it was such a panty-twister. God damnit, so hot!

We had talked earlier that day. Not about Liz Lemon, or 30 Rock, or even Tina Fey, for that matter. I don’t remember what we talked about earlier actually, we probably about bacon.

I just remember sitting on my bed, half-naked while writing, when I heard that beautiful iPhone “Bom Bom” (that’s not what that sounds like at all, but you catch my drift) text sound go off. When I read it, I laughed for a very long time. It had always been implied that I shared many qualities of the Liz Lemon, but no one had ever flat out asked my opinion on the matter.

I responded:

Me: You’re watching 30 rock aren’t you? Did she just put chocolate syrup on bacon? Cause that’s my thing, Liz!

Him: Nope.

Me: Were you watching it earlier?

Him: Nope.

Me: Well, where did this random epiphany come from then?

Him: I was just thinking about it.

Me: About me being the real-life Liz Lemon?

Him: Yeah.

Side note: He usually used more words via text, just FYI.

The weird part was I was actually flattered. Like, my whole body was blushing at this point. For one, he compared me to one of my idols, Liz Lemon. (Is it weird that I look up to Liz Lemon more than Tina Fey?) He didn’t even compare me to her, he said I was her!

And two, he was thinking about me. I had done nothing different to make this boy “think” about me. A boy I so desperately wanted to impress (and do terrible, terrible things to, which I did do later, so take note boys, if you want a lady to do amazing sexual things to you, just compare her to Liz Lemon, like a lot).

It was in that very moment that I truly became okay with I was. Here was this great guy constantly telling me how amazing, and beautiful and hilarious I was, and I didn’t change shit about me, I didn’t hide anything about my disgusting self. Which is very hard to do, for your information.

What scares me is it took a boy to show me how awesome I am. While I’m grateful that I discovered my awesomeness at a young(ish) age, what does it say about me that I couldn’t figure this out on my own?

 Honestly, I don’t want to know.

One of the reasons why I write this blog is in hope that all my weirdness/disgustingness/awkwardness will one day make you (if you are not already) cool with your own crazy/weird/awkward self.

We all are pretty weird, and for those of you that don’t think they are… no one ever really remembers and/or likes you. So, um… sucks to be you.

I’m in a relationship with Hellman Mayo on Facebook. I have put Cheetos on top of an ice-cream sundae, multiple times. I’ve worn bathing suit bottoms as underwear, and no I was not near a beach.

I hope I never change. And I hope you never do either.

SVU drinking game...I know, I know, brilliant.

Almost every female roommate I've ever had has shared a very, very real love/obsession for a little show I like to call "Law and Order: SVU" with me. If you haven't watched it, or don't like it, get the fuck out of my life. I've spent endless hours (or days...or weeks) wasting away in front of my television because of this brilliant show.

My best friend and her cousin made T-shirts that said, "Stabey I want to have your babies." And then their parents were like, "No."

Phone calls have been missed, texts ignored, mayo left uneaten, because when this show is on...I don't give a shit about anything else.

So... one drunken night, my roommate and I wandered upon an SVU marathon, and since we were already drinking,  we decided why not combine our two favorite loves, mindless television and borderline alcoholism?

And thus, my lovely readers, I bestow upon you my greatest gift to society. (Not that this hasn't already been created before, it's still my greatest gift to society). I give you "Law and Order: SVU"....THE DRINKING GAME! What?! What?!

It's simple really, all you have to do is drink anytime one of these moments occur.

1. Every time the "bom bom" goes off.
2. Anytime Ice T says something stereotypical/stupid/or you find yourself saying "Really, Ice T? Really?!?"
3. Anytime BD Wong is in a scene. (You also have to point to the television and scream, BD Wong!) 
4. Chug your beer every time Stabler's family comes in. (Can be just mother, daughter, son or all three.)
5. Chug beer every time someone goes undercover.
6. Drink every time Olivia  Benson purses her lips. (Drink two times if she is looking at Stabler while pursing her lips, and three times if she is pursing her lips at a suspect.)
7. Drink every time the gang is being "too casual" with one another. (I.E. witty banter, eating donuts, making fun of someone while eating donuts, etc.)
8. Drink when Dr. Warner comes into the scene. (She's the medical examiner, if you didn't know that...assholes.)
9. Drink every time you recognize a street. (Fellow NYCer's this is where you are going to get fucked up...)
10. Every time Stabler beats up a suspect. (Keep drinking until the fight is over.)
11. Every time you recognize a celebrity cameo.
12. Anytime you Wikipedia "Stabler" during an episode.
13. Anytime someone conveniently finds a "key" piece of evidence.
14. Anytime someone finds a cut off member and/or someone has had their member cut off.
15. Anytime Olivia Benson is being stalked.
16. Anytime there is sexual tension between Benson and Stabler.

I hope you enjoy, now excuse me I need to go find a marathon...

Sexually Repression, Threesomes and Shakespeare? Why yes, it is another installment of Sex and the City, Awkwardly Speaking

I want to thank you guys so much for all the questions! I'm thinking about turning this "advice column" into it's own website. Let me know if you guys think it's worth the time, and don't forget to send your questions to... awkwardsexandthecity@gmail.com!

This next set of questions comes from a "Mr. David" who asked:


1.  I had a dream recently where I was in prison, and no butt sex occurred.  Is my subconscious telling me that I'm sexually repressed?

2.  What is the general opinion of women (or yourself, depending on how broad you intend this to be) on manscaping?  Do we really need to bother or do most women not actually care?

3.  Does the threesome hold the same appeal to women that it does to men?

4.  Is it weird or hot to quote Shakespeare during sex?

Dear David,

 

I can only hope my answers shed some light your questions and general being, if not... you're fucked.

1. Abso-fucking-lutely it means you are sexually repressed. Butt sex is like the main criteria for male prison dreams. What the fuck is wrong with you?! So now you have to ask yourself…what exactly are you ashamed of, or what has caused these feelings of repression? Your religious upbringing? A strict family, per chance? Or is it just your undying love for certain condiments? Don’t worry, I get it. As a Catholic with a very real love for Hellman mayo, you just have to tell yourself (and the world) that, “Hellman (or Heinz, whatever you fancy) is my soul mate, and if you (the world) can’t accept that, then I don’t want to be apart of your socially conforming world anymore!” It’s that simple, really.

2. For this question it depends on the age of the lady. Older women, they find “manscaping” weird and slightly effeminate to ever be considered a turn-on. Younger ladies, it’s fucking essential. We care. We really do. Nothing is grosser than an untamed dick-beard.  Speaking from personal experience, I will go out of my to way steer clear from an unruly dick-beard. In this day an age, I just see it as a common courtesy. Well that and just another chapter in male-female equality. You can’t ask us to “scape” down thurrr and not expect us to want same. Looks like you’ve some work ahead of you. Snip. Snip.

3. Absolutely not. A guy once told me the main reason men love threesomes is because it’s not just one beautiful lady, it’s two. Um, no. First off, I just see it as one too many vagina's. It’s not a jealousy thing, vagina's are just fucking icky. I will never get the allure (of vagina's, that is). Secondly, have you not watched any amateur porn before? I wouldn’t exactly describe those ladies as “beautiful.” Doable, yes. Easy, absolutely. But not “beautiful.” And we can’t forget that a threesome could potential mean two dudes, one chick. That’s, that’s a lot of dick. Wouldn’t you agree?

4. Well, which play are we talking about here? Macbeth? Yeah, that’s fucking weird. Romeo & Juliet? You’re trying to hard. Henry VIII? Now we’re talking. Give me a little, “A load would sink a navy,” or “If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me, I had it from my father,” in the heat of the moment, and I’m alllllllllll yours.  

I have no fucking clue.

I hate it when you know you’ve written shit, and yet you still post it, especially after writing something that was ah-fucking-mazing. It’s such a, “I’m not as funny as I like to think,” slap in the face.

 I don’t know if other writers agree, but it’s like you can’t get to your next great, “laugh out loud” post until you write out all the shit that’s mucking up the works in that pretty little head of yours. And it has potential, you just are being mentally lazy/you aren’t drunk enough to really mess with these ideas in your head.

I also have a very bad habit of writing a post halfway through, then stop because I tell myself, “I know where I’m going with this post,” go do some awkwardly weird shit, only to come back a few hours later and realize I have no fucking clue where I wanted to go with this post.

It’s probably not a good sign if I don’t even understand the inner workings of my mind. But like seriously, it’s a little weird up in thurrrrr.

Writing is such a bitch sometimes. It gets in the way of so much awesome shit. I’m sorry, but watching the semi-finalist breakdown on “The Voice” is kind of a big priority in my life right now. You wouldn’t understand, Mr./Ms. Big shot with your amazingly not weird life.

I just made Trader Joe’s instant mac & cheese… in my underwear. This will probably be the highlight of my day. Get on my level, bitches.

And again, it’s happened. Halfway through and I have no clue where I’m going with this post. And I didn’t even fucking walk away this time. My mind just goes on too many tangents at once. A real writer once told me that was a good thing. I think he was lying just to fuck with my head.

That bastard.

Do you every do that? Do you every (or constantly) find yourself in a world so unlike yours in your own head? This is what happens to me. I constantly see people in my head.

They play over and over, same dialogue, same voices, same faces. They haunt me until I write them down. But writing them down only makes it worse.  Once it’s on paper, it all becomes real. I know these people. I understand what they want, what they need, because inevitably my sick mind created them.

I like to tell myself that this is just what the adult version of one’s imagination looks like, and not that I’m fucking crazy.

But we all know that’s a lie. You’ve read my blog. I’m fucking crazy.  And in all honesty, I’m okay with being perceived as crazy. I just don’t want to actually be clinically “crazy” crazy.

I’m not a normal person. I’ve been aware of this for a very long time. And as cool as I am with not conforming to the norms of our society…seeing imaginary people in my head…that just doesn’t even sound cool. It sounds fucked up. Like really fucked up. Like, “A Beautiful Mind” fucked up. No one saw that shit coming! No one!

Ug, sorry, none of this makes sense. Not even to me. But this is what it’s like in my head!! It’s exhausting. And I truly feel sorry for the man who one day marries me and has to deal with all this shit. Because, believe me, man I am one day going to marry, you will be dealing with alllllllllllllllll of this shit.

Ew.

And I’m officially disgusted by my general being… yet again.

Nothing like attending a wedding...

Nothing like attending a wedding to get you thinking about your own.

Now, I've written about my dream wedding before, which included but is not limited to, me drunkenly screaming, "I'm not a virgin!"/ Tripping over my dress... repeatedly/bouquets of Keystone Light cans and glow sticks. Oh, and there may have been a few stripper poles involved too...I don't know...I don't know.

But in all honesty, I want to elope. (Bitch said what?!?)

For two reasons really. First off, to me that is just such an intimate moment between two people, and as much as I love and want my family and friends to be apart of that moment, I'd rather share that moment with my man in private... and get hammered with my family and friends immediately afterward.

And secondly, my dad said he would cut us a pretty massive check that would have been used to pay for the wedding.

Uh...Score.

You know how much useless shit I could but with that money?!? Sooooooooo much.

Now don't get me wrong, there will be a huge ass reception. And it will be trashy and raunchy and I will be shitfaced...and screaming, "I'm still not a virgin!"

My parents want to have it the backyard of their house. I'm kind of okay with that. (Don't tell them I said that.) There's a pool and a golf course back thurrrr. Who wouldn't want to see me fall out of a golf cart, hammered, and get my dress get caught up in the wheel, leaving me forced to shimmy out of my Vera Wang (Dream big.) dress and drunkenly stagger back to the backyard half-naked, only to park myself (still half-naked) to the nearest keg, as if nothing had happened?

And let's be honest, we alllllllllllll know that is exactly what's going to happen.

Either that, or I'm going to fall into the pool, repeatedly.

I'm okay with either scenarios. Or both. Both would be pretty funny too.

Side note, future Natalie: Wear a bra under your wedding dress. Even if there is a built-in bra in the dress. Wear a bra! I know how you think, lady. You never think about the possible end results, which will be you getting hammered and half-naked at your own reception. So wear a fucking bra!

This is how I see it. The wedding is for you and your lady/man/lady-man. The reception is for your guests. They want to be fed alcohol/cake/some beef and chicken thing and entertained, god dammit! Entertained! And if that includes me somehow staggering from keg to keg in my own backyard, half-naked, then so be it.

I think I'm going to have to find a very distinct type of man to be okay with this whole situation...and my general being...

I hear I clean up pretty well, gentlemen.

"Why can't you just find a nice Jewish boy to marry already?"

"Because, Mother. The last Jewish guy I was with was a 26-year old lawyer with a coke addiction."

...This might take a while.

Hmmm, How to Put This? Oh Yeah...Love Sucks.

I’m starting to see a trend amongst all my close female friends: we fell in love. Our first love, to be exact. And it fucking sucks.

Oh there have been boys, and boyfriends, and flings and mutual one-night stands, but not a boy like this. We finally experienced a man that showed us how great we are, exactly the way we are. However, as great as the guys have been, they all have one motherfucking huge character flaw: they are selfish as fuck.

As great and perfect and awesome these men have been, they have had no problem making us wait, having us put our lives on hold for them, and what’s scary is how willing we have been to appease them. These smart, successful, fucking amazing girls are so willing to uproot their lives after ALLLLL they have worked for, for these men.

A little one-sided right? Right.

The hardest part, is the moment you realize that no matter what you do, no matter how much you give up to prove your commitment, it’s always going to be one-sided. And it’s not completely the dude’s fault.

First loves usually fail because you are heading in different directions, or you are in different parts of your life. You can wait for them, or follow them, and many ladies choose to do that. I’m not saying that that is the right or wrong choice, but my friends are not those type of girls. And yet here they are, stuck in a moment of complete confusion and denial of how unhappy they are with this situation.

I walked away from my first love 3 months ago, and the hardest part was knowing that he wasn’t going to fight for me, not even once. He was going to respect my wishes and stay away. Which he has, and that pain was unbearable… at first.

I had a month where I didn’t want to do anything that was remotely “me” because everything that made me, me, was everything he liked about me, and was what made me so amazing, according to him. (Let’s see how many more times I can say “me” in this paragraph?) And if I couldn’t get him to be with me by being that person, then I never wanted to be that person again. (Only once.)

I had two choices in this situation, I could stay in the “open” long-distance relationship in hopes that he would realize how much he loved me and decide that I was worth it to fully commit, or I could walk away, knowing he was never going to think I was worth the distance. And less than 24 hours of literally being in his arms, I walked away.

At first, I thought I was just being stubborn. That I was letting pride get in the way of “love.” But I wasn’t. I had finally stepped away and saw how selfish he was being. How he used me emotionally and physically and how quickly and easily he could disregard everything that we were as “casual.”

Side note: He replaced me in less than three months. Their relationship lasted about three weeks on facebook.

I’m not bitter (anymore). I’m not hurt (anymore).  I still I love all the memories of “us.” He showed me how great of a person I was and until the very end, he showed me how to be treated by a man. And for that I will always be thankful.

I’m writing this and reliving the hell for you, to tell you…you need to walk away. He’s not going to change his mind. He never will.

You’ve done everything you can to show him how much you love him. He just doesn’t feel the same way. Or maybe he does, and walking away will finally make him realize that.

It’s your turn to be selfish. You’ve put your life on hold long enough. Yeah, walking away is going to fucking suck (at first).

But believe me… you will not regret it. Any of it.   

Let's not lie anymore, bloggers.

I want to talk about the blog-o-sphere for one hot sec. Can we just all truthfully admit for one fucking second what we are really doing on the Google-nets?

It cracks me up when people pretend like they aren’t trying to make a name for themselves with their blog….

You have a fucking blog. You’re either…

A. Pregnant…and want to force all of society to be happy for your “blessing from God”…(we’re not, by the way).

B. Just recently watched “Julie and Julia” and thought, “Who doesn’t want another recipe blog…that could potentially land me a book deal? “

Or C. You are trying to get a fucking book deal…with your thought provoking, fucking thoughts (which aren’t, by the way).

Side note: I’m fucking drunk as I write this…so I apologize for all the typos/grammar mistakes/racial slurs.

Any who…I ’m not even going to pretend like I don’t fall into the latter. Of course, I’m trying to get a fucking book deal.

I want to write for a living…who doesn’t?! You make your own hours…you can drink constantly…and people are forced to take your opinion “seriously” because your opinions obviously must have some merit since you are paid a salary to write about them.

And let’s not forget about the narcissism. If you have a blog…you are one narcissistic son of a bitch. Don’t even pretend like you’re not.

My ego is fucking huge…and all this blog does (especially recently) is perpetuating that situation.

I think I’m hilarious. No scratch that…I know I am hilarious. Why? Because I have a fucking blog.

It’s just like taking a creative writing class in college…you know you are a good writer…you just want to force 20+ people to be jealous of your “written gift.”

However, the blog-o-sphere leaves you in a very weird existence…seeing as there are a 1,000,000,000+ blogs on the internets as I type this sentence.

What makes you special? What makes me special? Nothing… unless you are me. Then you are fucking awesome.

And welcome to the never-ending narcissistic cycle of being a blog writer. Not like you didn’t already know this truth…just thought I’d make you (and myself) feel a little worse.

Happy blogging.

I don't know how I get laid...

Like seriously, I don't.

"Go on," you say? Go on I will indeed.

1. I've done a jig, naked, before sex and said, "You're about to have sex with this."

2. On numerous occasions, I've crossed my eyes and distorted my face to look mentally unstable and said, "You have sex with this," while playing with some type of wire of sort...

3. I've done the whole, "smoke a cigarette after sex" thing. But only because while I was smoking it, I was thinking, "Holy shit, that was the worst sex of my life."

4. I've punched a guy during sex. Totally on accident, I swear! We laughed about it later, but for realz, I like punched the shit out of his jaw.

5. I have fallen off the bed during sex...multiple times...sober.

6. I'm pretty sure I raped a guy once...well, it was consentual but he just looked like he wanted to cry the whole time. And I vaguely remember saying, "I feel like I'm raping you."

7. "Am I too small?"
    "Um.....You're........um....let's just have sex."

8. I'll pretend to sleep late in the morning so we don't have time to mess around in the morning.

9. Have you ever gotten your hair stuck on a bed frame and not realize it until it was...well...too late? I have. More than once.

10. I was hooking up with this one dude a few years back, and I called him so many different names when we hung out that I didn't know what to call him during sex....so I just switched up the names during sex... Like all five of them.

There's more, but I feel like I should stop here...I would like to get laid again at some point in the future...

Another installment of Awkward Sex and the City, Advice column style...what what!?!

Dear Foul-Mouthed Advice-Giver:

As I attempt to avoid doing actual work by following your writings, I noticed that you are open to taking my questions regarding dating.  As you live in the largest city in the country, and have debatably one of the most charming demeanors for a lady our age, I am choosing you as my guru.

How many dates should I wait before putting the moves on someone who keeps insisting that we "take it slow" to build a relationship?

How do I tell someone who wants to "take it slow" and build a relationship that I only dated them because I wanted sex?

Is it really inappropriate to get out of bed immediately and sneak away following intense emotional discussions?

What is an ideal first date? For guys? For girls?

I am certain more questions shall arise should you choose to take on the task of my spiritual leadership in this area.  Also, if I am lucky enough to encounter you again in the future, I shall repay your services in beer or wine if you are pretending to be classy.

Sincerely,

Mitch's-Bitch Haley

For me personally, I’ve never it made it past date one. Shocking, I know. And it's something I’m personally working on at the moment. You are also in an even trickier situation seeing as the dude is the one that wants to take it slow.

Now I know you want to have sex, who the fuck doesn’t?! But I think you need to step back and ask yourself how do you really feel about this guy. If he is someone you are purely trying to use for sex, walk away. Sex with emotions on one side but not the other is hard as fuck to deal with. He will try so hard to not let you be the one that “got away” when you finally decide you cannot handle his needs along with the sex. Do you want to deal with that? The endless calls? The emotional guilt trips? The extravagent gifts? Okay the last part sounds all right...

Believe me, there are plenty of other easy fish in the sea.

But if he is someone you actually enjoy being around and have feelings for, why not give it a shot?

Guys and girls have a verrrrrrrrry different perception of “taking it slow” and I think you will find him in your pants way sooner than anticipated. Which is good, that is what you want.

As for how to tell him you only dated him because you wanted sex… I wouldn’t. I know honesty is important, but ouch, that would really hurt. I don’t mean lie, but maybe just avoid that convo, for his self-esteem’s sake, that is. I mean come on, it sounds like you are about to break up with him, let’s give the guy a fighting chance afterward. And if you still feel that way about him, like I said, walk away now before you and him get in too deep.

I’ve run/snuck away/kicked someone out way too many times than I’m willing to admit too. I blame it on my immaturity and issues with vulnerability and commitment. Maybe you and I have that in common? Is it inappropriate? Absolutely.

But, I think ladies in this generation face a very different issue when it comes to dating and sex than our foremothers did. We want to get laid. We really do. And sometimes we just don’t have time for the emotional shit. Does that make us terrible people? Yes. But we will be highly successful, nonetheless.

As for a perfect date: baseball game. Stole this answer from a friend, but so true. You get to drink as much as you want, and if you have nothing to talk about there’s a game you two can watch in silence…while still getting drunker.

Heyo!

I'm cute...but that's about it...

I’m cute, but that cuteness will only get me so far, seeing as I’m disgusting….and lazy…and weird…and kind of an asshole…and a smidge pathetic….

And for a second I thought maybe that I should reflect on my lesser qualities/philosophies/addiction to mayo and you know…fix that.

…but then Matt handed me a margarita.

Sooooooooo, I started making a list of all my weird shit and it’s bad… like really bad (and sadly all true) ….pretty much… I’m literally wiping out any chance I have of getting laid with this one blog post.

…you’ve been warned.

1. I shave my big toes…they just have these 3 hairs that drive me crazy…and are a bitch to pluck.

2. I hate, hate, hate brushing my teeth…. I really do.

3. Mayo…dollops and dollops of mayo….enough said.

4. KFC Double Down…filled with dollops and dollops of mayo…

5. My "Catholicness" has me convinced that one day I’m going to be possessed by the devil…or maybe I already am…

6. My dream is to be famous based solely on all the disgusting shit I do… it’s a valid life choice.

7. I often ask myself…. “Why am I not slutty…er?”

8. Fuck flossing.

9. I think all jeans should have an elastic waist-band/spanx/a portable McFlurry maker installed in them.

10. My favorite dessert…hostess mini donuts topped off with a shit ton of vanilla icing fresh out of spray can….but, like 12 of them…in my mouth…at once.

11. My feet smell like fritos (when I don’t wear socks)…I don’t plan on fixing that.

12. Also, my feet sweat….like…all the time.

13. What does Grade D meat stand for? Damn Delicious meat…that’s what!

14. “Oh…I remember you! It’s extra, extra, extra mayo girl again…”

15. In the winter I legit don’t shave my legs….it’s the closest I can get to feeling like a man.

16. On second thought… I’m pretty sure I am a man….

17. So what exactly is wrong with porn?

18. Fuck fruit.

19. If I had a penis…I wouldn’t wash it….deal with it.

20. One day some dude was staring at me in a truck when I was walking to campus…I screamed…”What the fuck are you looking at?!?”… it was my cousin.

21. I love the smell of chloroform.

22. I use my macbook to write/shield my food boner/conconct mayo masterpieces on….oh and watch porn.

23. I probably won’t care if you thought I was racist…as long as you think I’m pretty.

24. I have a dandruff.

25. I like the taste of iron.

26. I just farted.

27. My soul mate is named Bell…Taco Bell.

28. Usually when I think my cell phone is vibrating in my back pocket…it’s just my upper thighs jiggling.

29. I hate nature…like legitimately hate nature.

30. Stereotypes are my favorite pastime….

There’s more…but you know I don’t want you to vomit in your mouth too much…