your eyes say it all...

You’ve been given many “looks” over the years, haven’t you? Some good; some bad; some made you cry in the corner of your bathtub (gentlemen), but the truth is, that’s life.

We all get those looks from friends/strangers/DMV workers, so to make you feel a little less repulsed about yourself, I have compiled a list of looks I’ve been given over the decades:

1. “I’ve seen you naked” look.

2. “I’m not impressed at what I’m looking at while you stand in front of me naked” look.

3. “I’m pretending I don’t remember you vomiting at that party the other night” look.

4. “I know you just pooped” look.

5. “You’re the whore who had sex with my friend on the stairs” look.

6. “I bet you have no standards” look.

7. “I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell” look.

8. I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell and pay with change” look.

9. “I’m sexually repulsed by the thought of you” look.

10. “You’re hot” look. (Side note: This is only from Mexican construction workers.)

11. “You don’t know how to read, do you?” look.

12. “I bet you like fat guys” look.

13. “I just saw you vomit outside of a taxicab” look.

14. “You vomit a lot” look.

15. “I’m pretty sure there is a hell and I’m pretty sure you’re going” look.

16. “You’re antics are a drain on society” look.

17. “You going to Catholic school explains a lot” look.

18. “You think Candy land is a real country, don’t you?” look.

19. “I just watched you pop a zit in public” look.

20. “I’m still watching you pop a zit in public” look.

21. “Did you just tell that man to put 5 scoops of mayo on your sandwich?” look.

22. “Are you still talking?” look.

23. “You just said Danny Glover was your original fuck” look.

24. “You’re just pretending to understand science, aren’t you” look.

25. “You just ate something that fell on the ground” look.

26. “Why are you buying a 20-pack of condoms, toothpaste and a hot-pocket all at the same time?” look.

Quickest ways to get me to automatically hate you (especially if you’re a dude).

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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.