One day, I'm going to be old....

...actually, that day comes this summer when I turn the dreaded twenty-two. Woof. But really, I currently tan the shit out of my skin and I eventually plan on popping out a whole litter of little bebes so I'm assuming I'm going to  be one leathery-skinned, belly pooch-sporting mamajama in the future. I have every intention of being as vain as an OC housewife and hitting up the plastic surgeon until my forehead's expressionless and the other soccer moms talk shit about my fake boobies- BUT STILL. I'm sure I'll mourn my youth and wish I had taken more pictures to casually plant around my future house until my son's friends consider me a MILF.

"Look how happy Mommy looks here, Aviana*. This was a time when binge drinking throughout the week was acceptable..."

*Yeah, I named my hypothetical daughter already. Who are you to judge me?

Sorry I havent blogged, Sam

Friday night, I took off from work because I desperately needed a sloppy night out. I ended up at Miller's Ale House with a bunch of guys and way more intoxicated than I expected to be off only three vodka-clubs. I had never been there before but the vibe was cool. I'm constantly trying to find some kind of weekend compromise to satisfy all of my friends' interests. Personally, I want to dress up in a skanky outfit and go to a bar with a dance floor and loud music and lots of guys with big muscles. My group of friends are a smorgasbord of stereotypes, really. We've got it covered from guidettes to hipsters to athletes to fashionistas to millsies. Any combination of two of us could easily replace the characters in one of those "A priest and rabbi walk into a bar..." jokes. Just stark opposites across the board, but somehow, we all fucks wit it. On any given weekend, the suggestions range:

1) frequent the townie bar and essentially have a high school reunion

2) hit up a sugar daddy lounge

3) roll at Pacha

4) barcrawl in RVC

5) stay in and moisturize 

I'm going to throw the Miller's option into the mix next time my first choice of RVC gets shot down. It's got the townie bar feel minus the townies I'm so sick of seeing. EVERYONE'S HAPPY! On Saturday, I had to go to a wedding that I vowed not to drink at. A few (read: too many) french martinis later, and any dancing ability I might usually possess was out the fucking window. Seriously, what is this move?

SUMMER.

Is it summer yet? I'm completely over the cold, the chilliness, whatever. I just want it to be warm. I want my friends to come back from school and I want to do fun, summer things. I want to complain about the humidity's effect on my hair and I want to be able to pass off a patriotic bandana from Party City as a proper shirt for a Fourth of July house party.

I texted Erin before about renting something in the Hamptons whichever weekend Neptunes/Boardy opens. She had blogged about how perfect a particular pair of shoes would be for brunch in the Hamptons. I figure we can have the best of both worlds- be our sloppy degenerate selves at the Barn and then throw on some wedges and sundresses the next morning and do our best socialites impression. I heard a rumor opening day isn't too far away, but I can't find anything that gives me an exact date. KERRI??

That doesn't go there...

Sam made me promise I'd only write nice things about her on here. SAM, YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE THAT READS/KNOWS ABOUT THIS. Well, besides Kerri and maybe Erin...and Joe (I don't believe for one second you didn't bookmark this shit you spy) There's my shoutout to my vast amount of readers. Now, onto one of the most absurd text messages I got today from my guy friend who spent the night in AC:

B: But do I ever have a story for you
Me: Haha, what happened?
B: So I go upstairs for a break and my friend brought a "girl" back. So they did their deed now mind you he claims he didn't pay, and she was normal for a short period of time then all hell broke loose. She is flashing her twat around and proceeds to crush a beer can in between her ass cheeks. Then this is the cherry on top. Lays down on the bed, grabs her ankles, pulls them to her shoulders, lights a cigg, stuffs it in her vag takes a huge pull and starts queefing out the smoke. And continues to queef on demand. And he didn't pay, he swears.

..no. NO. NO. NO. I refuse to let my brain process that story. Keep in mind, I got this text while innocently browsing the toothpaste aisle at Target. I was just strolling along swinging my basket when he dropped this bomb on me. I don't even know how to feel about this. I mean, I thought I got wild in AC, but this girl takes the CAKE. I can't even inhale a cigarette in my MOUTH without grabbing for the arm of the person next to me and coughing until I'm lightheaded, yet this slut is blowing perfect smoke rings out of her nono zone. Unfuckingreal. I need to pick this girl's brain, "What first inspired you to crush beer cans in your buttcheeks?" Like, how broken of a home do you have to come from where your reaction to being the only girl in a room full of guys is to treat your vagina to a smoke? More importantly, WHAT WERE THE GUYS DOING DURING THIS? I asked B and he answered "Sitting there in disbelief." No, B. You should have been curled up and rocking in the fetal position on the floor while covering your eyes because that was NOT something you can ever unsee.

Light Eyes

Two things I don't need when it comes to guys: chiseled 6 pack abs and light eyes. Sure, the abs might look nice but you can only run your hand across a washboard stomach for so long until it gets old. And the smugness of a guy who avoids carbs 6 out of 7 days and uses phrases like "rise and grinddd" is just a little too much for me. As far as light eyes, I really couldn't give a shit what color eyes a guy has. I dated a guy for a year and couldn't tell you his eye color. Hazel? Green? I have no idea.

But guys everywhere seem to be busting a serious nut over the whole "dark hair, light eyes" type. I don't think there's anything wrong with my brown eyes but out of sheer curiosity, I found a makeover website that allowed me to change my eye color. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I could cure my blindness and find another way to sellout all at the same time. As if the fake tan, fake hair, and fake nails weren't enough.

Seriously?

….I…I don’t even know where to begin here. Do I focus on the original status or just jump right to the “aw” reaction?  I guess it’d be best not to exhaust myself and just stick to making fun of one person per post. So,  he wants a girl to use him for him…and not his dick. First off, that doesn’t even make sense.  That still leaves you getting used, brotha.  Second, let me give you some background on this kid. He’s one of those people you cannot bring yourself to defriend on Facebook solely because of the entertainment they provide. Kid’s got some undeniable symptoms of Douchebag Syndrome:

1.       1. Switched his last name on facebook to “Romance”

2.       2. Routinely posts pictures of his high bar tabs to show how much money his dumbass wastes buying drinks for opportunistic girls like myself

3     3. Clogs up my newsfeed with hourly statuses about loving girls and looking good

So how did I get the honor of becoming Facebook friends with a polished gem like this? I met him at a bar, of course. Now, let me explain my stance on giving my number out at bars. I do it all the fucking time. Seriously, not too hard to get my number out of me; no guy should consider it a victory of any sort. Chances are if you’re a seemingly harmless guy who lures me in with a drink and then locks me into a conversation, I’m not going to not give you my number.  Why? Because that’s AWKWARD.  “Oh, well thanks  for the drink but I don’t really give enough of a fuck about talking to you ever again to give you my number.” No can do. Call me a softie. It’s just easier for me to let their texts fizzle out until they get the hint.  Anyway, that’s what happened with this kid. He tried to convince me I had told him I was unsure if I could ever date someone as good-looking as him because I’d be too possessive. Umm.. no, guy, no I did not tell you that. I could have been hooked up to an IV of 10,000 proof vodka while simultaneously knocking back shots of Absinthe and I still wouldn’t have said that because I am not attracted to scrawny effeminate guidos whether I’m sober, drunk, or comatose.  (Burly, masculine guidos are another story.)  Despite me assuring him that I was truly uninterested,  he still felt it necessary to flirtatiously call my name anytime he saw me on campus for an entire semester. To this day if someone holds the “e” in “Julie” a little too long, my immediate reaction is to put on my hood and sprint in the opposite  direction. “Julieee ;)” Oh god, it haunts me.

And speaking of God, I PRAY this kid never comes across this blog because I can just see the status update now “wowww haterz dedicatin hole blog posts to me now, keep hatin girl ur making me famous lma0”

No Way, No How

I’ve gained 10 pounds. I can’t count my ribs anymore or wear my jeans down to my vagina but at least I haven’t burst into inexplicable hysterics recently when people have asked me out to dinner. I figure starting today; I’ll begin my transformation back to skinny bitch. Sure, my friends and family find me annoying and insufferable when I’m in strict diet mode but truthfully, I used to rock the fuck out of those vagina exposing jeans and I intend to get back into them before summer.

I’m one of those former fat people who is a devout believer in “food addiction” When I’m dieting, I feel so empowered and in control. However, when I’m “off the wagon”, I am OFF THE FUCKING WAGON. Literally calling up contractors for quotes on in-ground pools I can fill with dark chocolate fondue and dangling my Girl Scout neighbor upside down by her ankles in hopes of discovering a loose thin mint. I have these crazy daydreams where I choose which friend I sell to the devil in exchange for calorie-less cupcakes.  (Your turn this week Millsie, stock up on your SPF Infinity) It’s just a nomming, chomping, gluttonous free-for-all. Remember the move Se7en? Remember that fat guy in his underwear face first in a plate of spaghetti, dead? Tubby’s got NOTHING on me. That killer would have tossed that guy aside in a hot second and I would have been bumped to number one on his “gluttony” victim list had he seen what I can do to a box of refrigerated Devil Dogs. Straight domination. 

But today, I’m finally in control. I realized I've become too bitchy to start getting fat again. I’ve created a good life consisting of throwing bitches dirty looks and having sex with former reality TV stars and I’ll be DAMNED before I give all of that up for some Haagen-Dasz.