Hi, my name is ____ and I’m a Jackass

Everyone: Hi, Jackass.

First off, I like to think I give the best advice because people come to me so I can punish them with my supposed wisdom. In case any of you get the notion, don’t ask me anything I actually don’t know shit. From this point onward, I will be referring to myself in the third person as “Big Mouth,” from time to time.

So Big Mouth was checking her e- mail when I noticed I got a message from my friend R’s girlfriend. It said vaguely that he did something bad and wanted advice about the situation. No sooner than I had replied with “?????” that my phone when off and it was Robert—er, R. After beating about the bush he ‘fessed up about what he did. THEN, Big Mouth mentioned the e-mail…which sent R spiraling silently down about why his girlfriend would be talking to HIS friend about THEIR situation.

I know how he feels…if you make friends with your lover’s friends’, they are NOT really YOUR friends…notice the placement of the possessive comma that I most likely used incorrectly but I don’t seem to care, do I? Look at me. Did you see care? No? Moving on.

So I went to bed thinking, “well, I can’t take her side and form a united front against penis because this penis happens to be MY friend…” and on the other hand, “I can’t pretend he wasn’t wrong and ignore her e mail, the girl came to me bleeding…” I feel asleep and slept well mainly because it wasn’t my problem anyway.

So I check my e- mail this afternoon and she mentions how he was really upset with her for going to HIS friend but I guess she gave him the subtle Fyou because she asked me again about what she should do.

And of COURSE, Big Mouth didn’t do the smart thing by saying how I wasn’t in a position to get involved because—you know. No, Big Mouth went all Dr. Phil in a thesis response about the whole situation, with possible instances where I might have put my foot in my mouth, back pedaled, raped the relationship and spat on my friendship with both of them…her by default and him for obvious reasons. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but I sent the e- mail and now I can totally see R BOILING over the fact that I am talking to her.

Let me just say this…if anything goes wrong, I hereby solemnly swear, in a sane state of mind, that my PMS is to blame. I pretty mentally mucked up right now. And I’m so bloated I feel like a manatee. So if I said anything more stupider (I intentionally wrote that…) IN the e-mail than sending the e-mail itself….it’s because I am a manatee. I’ll let you all know if I dug a grave for myself.


SHOULD I CALL HIM AND TELL HIM WHAT I DID???? I mean, he should know how daft I am by now…right???

A Night Out

Don’t feel sorry for me, kids. Don’t. I feel sick and queasy and it’s my fault. I’m a health science major (and ill keep throwing that around for as long as I live because I deserve at least that) and I went to a bar last night with 1000 days and a mutual friend. At bars AND pubs, because we went there too, it is obvious that 1000 days is steadily creeping up on 2000 days and it isn’t a big deal because the only men in bars and pubs are 40 year old barnacles.

And I don’t use that as an insult, we live in FL (at least I do , I dunno where you are from) and everywhere by the beach has a nautical theme. Last night was a typical “no thanks, I’ll just wait until my p***y dries up,” night.

So I’m at the pub with 1000 days so I can take her drunk ass home at the end of the night, and we’ll call her V, a hot-bod firefighter who’s cock blocking because men already recognize the hot bod.

Three young women sitting at a table in a den of decaying wolves like tender lambs, eating Shepherd’s pie, hot wings, calamari and a giant salad as if there were five of us. Anyway, we dine and dash to another joint after we had had enough of the crooked smiles, the drunken stupor stares and the pass-by-your-table-a-million-times-until-you-notice-me-men. We practically flew to the parking lot to avoid catcalls. Which, by the way didn’t work.

The next place was a hole in the wall—you know the type where the bartender knows your name and his name is Red or something that makes just as less sense as Red. It was a hole in the wall but all her firefighter friends are there and that means hot buff men. Yeah, no. The hole in the wall didn’t even have a name that I could remember and it was LITERALLY a hole in the wall.
“Just go into the alley and make a left,” V says, dashing into the alley ahead of us to make a zip line to the bathroom. She had gone to the bathroom, bought a beer and nested at the bar before we even got in.
I get an apple martini so 1000 days can polish it off but I think I ended up drinking more than her…anyway I’m a beer chick when I’m in a bar. So I’m sitting there LA LA LA LA LA most of her friends are women and if I was a bull dyke or a man I’d be so on it but out of boredom I play darts with two horridly drunk individuals named RJ and Samuel. What?? I used their names?? No worries, they can’t read anyway. Let me tell you, there’s nothing like watching the drunk throw better darts than you. Their drunken slurring, random screeching of profanities and delayed reactions to things said gets dull after a while. And you wonder why you didn’t know they were drunk the first time they asked if they could play? It got so bad at one point when they weren’t looking, I ran up to the scoreboard and scribbled in a few points to hurry the game along. They didn’t notice.

What the hell did I do with my purse? Oh, there it is. Back to the blog.

After that, I sit back at the bar and notice Rod Steward eyeing me up across the way so I make it my business to suddenly immerse myself in conversation with the fray of firefighters. Our conversation was thus,
“Giggle giggle, giggle. Giggle giggle penis giggle.”
“Giggle? Giggle, giggle!”
Like a bunch of turkeys. Anyway, the cock block brigade wasn’t enough because I ended up talking with Rod and bonus nephew K-fed for the rest of the night. And he smoked his 305’s in my direction, sharing his lung cancer with me for HOURS. I think I have cancer and I’m not kidding.

He invited me to his house today, but I commend him for thinking he had a chance with me. Hope is hard to kill.

I got home and my dog runs up to me and hauls breaks when he gets a whiff of my ashtray scent. He usually does the “Crotch Check Examination” to make sure I wasn’t having sex or hanging out with another dog. (I GUESS that’s what he means when he does it. He used to dick check my boyfriend.) I took off my clothes and threw them into the garage and fell asleep hugging the window to try and purify my lungs. This morning I woke up just as bad because the smoke was in my hair. So now I have a shower cap on until I finish breakfast.

Here’s hoping 1000 days got lucky.*sniff* Oh jeez, I smell wretched. Is it in my sheets????