Switching birth controls is making my hormones batshit crazy.

Due to a brief mix-up with my health insurance, I've gone off of my beloved NuvaRing for the month and I'm suddenly thrown back into having the libido of a 14-year-old boy and wanting to drink a bottle of wine and cry because I'm single and unlaid.  On the other hand, I don't have to put makeup on every morning, worry about any flirtatious conquests having sexually transmitted infections, or share said wine with anyone else.  And you know what?  I've got stacks of horror movies and free streaming porn, so fuck it.

Take that, NuvaRing.

A Letter for a Fuckbag

Dear Sir Whom I Am No Longer Fucking,

Remember how I ended things so coolly--smiled icily at you when I came by to pick up my stuff from your condo and said that I bore you no ill will?

Well, I fucking lied and you are a dirty, rotten scumbag.  Here's what I was gritting my teeth to avoid saying to you, you worthless dumbass.

When we started dating, I was all for keeping things mellow.  Look, bitch, I am the fucking Queen of Gray Area relationships.  We don't have to define this yet, just yet.  Let's just enjoy this, whatever it is.  Let's kiss some more and I'll show you what an excellent bedfellow I can be.

But, no.  You had to know where it was going and what I wanted.  You said you were a relationship person and that was what you sought.  I said that was fine.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I'd know when I had it.

And then, you romanced me.  You said things that I didn't believe at first.  Then, you said I should believe them.  I told my mother--she said not to believe those things you said, so I did.  I finally gave in when I knew I shouldn't have, and oh... I loved it.  I didn't love you, per se, but I loved those things you said.  Until for no reason at all, you... just... stopped.

"I'm capricious," you said to me.  "I'm just not sure to what extent I want to be involved in a relationship with you."

Well, let me make this very easy for you:  you will not be involved with me AT ALL.  For all of your transparent behavior, you've hidden one of two things from me:  one, you are lying to me to avoid hurting me, or two, you are unsure about me.  I do not prize dishonesty or uncertainty in my friends, let alone my lovers.

So then when you ended up in a relationship so soon after I stopped having any discourse with you, well, fuck you.  To even things out, here are some things that I hid from you while we were dating:  I never stopped talking to my ex.  Sometimes I thought of him when we were having sex.  No, I've never had that problem with a guy before, so it was obviously your problem.  Your oddly-shaped ribcage actually turned me off.  I faked it.  You have terrible taste in music.  Yes, I am a blogger and I *will* write about you and everything you did wrong, even in the bedroom.  That is my fucking MO, bitch.  Even if you are intelligent and have a good job, the fact that you have a fucking marijuana nursery makes me want to smash your face into a brick wall.  Grow the fuck up, hippie.  Your dick was too small and your spunk tasted awful and you couldn't find a clit with a headlamp and two air traffic controllers.  You need to go back to school and learn when to use "your" and "you're" and you can stop being pretentious any fucking day now.  Honestly, sweetheart, you're lucky I didn't pour liquid nitrogen in your lap and shatter your balls with a baseball bat.

But, I'm above that, and I'm above you, so go settle down with your mediocre ball and chain and stay off the market, so that it's easier for the rest of us above average single jewels to find that special thing for which we all search.  You just did not meet expectations and I'm actually pretty irritated that I let you put your dick in me.  Like, way irritated, actually.

So here we are.  You can go on, blissfully unaware that given the chance, I would run you over with my car and think that everything is fine.  I did smile at you when things ended, after all.  And I was cool about it... to your face.  I said I understood and wasn't interested in being friends.  You don't have it in you to be a good friend and frankly, you weren't thrilling enough for me to keep around.

Cheers, motherfucker.

--Smashy

Gwen and The Satanist

First of all, consider me *so glad* that tattoos are more socially acceptable nowadays.  As a minxy lady with a fair amount of ink myself, it's much less trouble if and when I forget to cover up some of my own tattoos and go strolling about in some public, conservative place.  People are just used to them now, I guess.  We're all using the same tools to claim we're independent and different from society, but let's face it - we're all only slightly different versions of all of the sameness in our own generation.

Did that make sense?  Whatthefuckever.  I'm two glasses of wine down and that soapbox isn't even worth standing on right now and it isn't my point.

My point is that, holy fuck, I have seen some stupid tattoos and they have been on some stupid men.  My absolute favorite, though?  My best friend since birth, Gwen, briefly dated a Satanist who had portraits of serial killers tattooed on his arm.  "Seriously?!"  I can practically hear you saying incredulously to me.  Yes, damn, relax and I will tell you the story.

Gwen had just gotten out of a relationship and was in the midst of exploring her options, and met this young piercing apprentice.  Though not unfortunate looking, the gentleman clearly had some white trash in him.  I met this guy when I was out with Gwen at a bar--she called him to come out and he rolled up in all his trucker hat'd glory.

He straddled the barstool next to me and I glimpsed the black and white faces sprawled across his arm.  Almost immediately, I recognized Charles Manson's warped grimace scowling at me from the crook of his elbow.

"Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me," I said loudly to Gwen.  "What the shit is this?"  I said to the Satanist.

"This one," he said, pointing to a dark, goatee'd fellow, "is Anton LaVey.  I'm a follower of the Church of Satan."

"Frankly," I muttered to Gwen, "I would be impressed if this fool could *spell* 'Satan'."

But The Satanist was dead-as-fuck serious and proceeded to lecture me on what he felt the true Satanist believed and obviously, got it completely wrong.  Now, I am no Satanist, but I know my way around them and their belief system.  Yes, I've fooled around with other subscribers of this belief.  Yes, I was friendly and partied on occasion with the lovely Szandora LaVey, Anton's now ex-daughter-in-law.  Yes, I've rolled around in the sheets of the seedy underbelly of perhaps undesirable and lost souls, but I've never pretended to be a leader on the subject.  Until, of course, some fuckbag popped up and tried to date my way-too-good-for-him best friend and still got his shit wrong.  And you know what?  He drank like a pussy.  Sorry, but so inexcusable.

So, I schooled him.  I ripped holes in his theories.  I called him a coward for trying to believe in something that directed one's moral compass to exclusive hedonism.  I essentially forced him into a corner where he found himself incapable of defending his own beliefs and then, I kicked him when he was down.

"And?  Your tattoos are fucking shitty.  If I were you and I was still trying to "save money" by living in Mommy's basement, I'd take what I was saving and get them removed so you don't end up with some fucking Kathy Bates psycho straight outta "Misery" because Lord knows that shit you have scribbled on your arm is just for show.  If you believed any of the principles that those men held on to, you would not be in a bar stuttering to me to defend something that you know nothing about, just so that I'll give my friend--the girl you want to fuck--the go ahead to let your dumb, loser ass spill your fucking less-than-worthy DNA all over her.  You would be holed up in some cabin in the woods, duct taping C4 to PVC pipes and threatening to bring your judgment down upon the establishment.  Sack up, buttercup, or ship the fuck out."

He, of course, tried to laugh all of this off.  Maybe I was harsh, but I don't regret a goddamn second of it.  Gwen never saw him again.

So like I said, I love that tattoos are acceptable now.  I just don't love that people think that means that bad tattoos are acceptable.  Additionally, getting tattoos does not make you unique or clever or smart or even worth my time, unless you have something sitting in your skull to back it up.  Ink doesn't change the fact that you're still a loser, loser.

--Smashy

Martini Lunch, Bitches

Oh, Friday.

You were clearly made for me to fake being busy.  As we speak, I'm back from a 3 martini lunch, sexting my newest conquest and trying to look sober in front of my coworkers.

They just caught me singing Katy Perry, though, so I don't think it's working.

Fuck it.  I love you, Friday.

PilloWTF Talk

A couple of years ago, through a random series of events that I will not go into right now but probably will in the future, I was in the midst of drunken mistake sex with a guy friend of mine and he paused in the middle to declare his intentions to me.

"This doesn't mean I want you to be my girlfriend, or that we're dating."

I quoted that directly, as it was burned into my memory and will reside there until I bite the bullet.

Right after him, I dated a man who asked me to be his girlfriend while we were in bed together.

Most recently, I was dating a man who would discuss at length how our relationship was "undefinable" while we were in bed.

Above all, overwhelmingly, I want to know:  since when is the bedroom the right place to worry about if you have to change your relationship status on Facebook?

- Smashy

"...in bed."

My fortune cookie from this weekend's Chinese food/tequila binge gave me a totally shallow compliment.  Like any good woman, I ate it up.  I know I'm a smart cookie (pun half-heartedly intended, it IS Monday) and enjoy compliments about my intellect, humor and wit, but let's face it - sometimes you want some cookie to come along and tell you you're pretty and popular and lots of people like you.

I don't take compliments like a normal person because I vacillate between bracingly self-deprecating and off-puttingly confident.  Even in my mid-twenties, I'm still trying to strike the right balance between humility and self-assurance when someone says something sweet to me. 

Once, a gorgeous man told me I needed more self-esteem and I told him just because I didn't reply to every compliment with "I know, right?!  I really am hot!" didn't mean that I didn't believe it.

Do I think I'm pretty?  Yes.

Am I still going to be visibly uncomfortable and blush like a dweeb when someone tells me?  Yes.

Unless it's a cookie.

- Smashy

The Artist and His Afflictions

Recently in my Kingdom of Singledom, I set my sights on a sexy, tattooed artist.  We'd started out like all healthy relationships start out - initial flirtation on Facebook, a few video chats, some phone calls (like, who even talks on the phone anymore, seriously?) and the inevitable comfortable settling into text communication.  We hadn't progressed to actual *dating* outside of my foray to one of his art exhibitions, which ended up being a one-beer kind of event and while Artist is hot, he isn't enough of a draw to keep me entertained
at a one-beer event for longer than two hours.

Throughout this period of time, Artist become The Man Who Said Fucking Stupid Shit.  Somewhere, at some point in time, we apparently turned the corner of Mutual Attraction and entered into the place where everything that fell out of his mouth made him look like a loser. Things like:

"By the way, I still live with my mom.  No, I haven't thought of looking for my own place.  Why do you ask?"

"Well, to supplement my artist income, I sell bongs."

"College?  No.  I never finished high school, so I don't think you can go to college without your GED."

"I don't drive because my car was impounded after a DUI.  Yeah, I'm still on probation."

Now, every woman has a great potential to overlook the faults of men in lieu of how badly she wants to give him a pair of thigh earmuffs. Artist was hot.  Stupid, yes, but hot.  I'm not interested in any kind of a relationship, so why not have a little fun?  That is, until the day that he uttered words that not even the most smashed and unabashed and horny lady can overlook.

He ended up on the guest list for a random red carpet event for a pornography production company and, knowing my penchant for good ol' nekkid, fleshy entertainment, invited me to be his +1.  Our first date, and at a porno party, no less!  Things were looking up! Regrettably, though, I was unable to attend.  I KNOW.  Prior commitments and all that.  Charmingly, I texted dear, sexy, sweet Artist and told him since he would be flying solo that night to feel free and try to get some from one of the porn stars in attendance.  It's not every day that you have that kind of opportunity, you know.  He laughed and tossed a comment at me about that potentially ruining the career of a porn star.

Huh.

Ruin a porn star's career?  How does that happen? 

"Why?"  I'd texted back.  "Because you're that good in bed that they'd never want anyone else?"

"No," he replied.  "Because of my afflictions."

"Afflictions?"  Oh shit.  This is turning down the wrong road real fast.

"Yeah, my STDs."

"Ha ha ha, lol, lmfao.  Good one.  Your 'afflictions!'  Okay, SlutBucket, what STDs do you have?"

"It's not that funny, actually.  I have herpes and genital warts."

"Heh heh... wait, seriously?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd told you."

"NO we conveniently did not have that conversation.  Fuck.  Sorry. I didn't mean to be a dick about it."

"It's cool.  So, if you're not interested in this party, when are we gonna go out?"

"Oh.  Actually, I'm looking at my schedule and I'm just booked solid. Sorry.  Good luck with your art."

What?!  Don't look at me like that!  The skinny is this:  neither one of us wanted a relationship, which means our heavily flirtatious and short-lived non-relationship was meant to be exclusively sexual, and I'm not about to fuck around with STD shit.  However, we are currently platonic friends, and I will forever be grateful that he sacrificed his orgasms for the sake of the health of my snatch.  There are just some things that a girl should never overlook when it comes to our precious, beloved bad boys, and itchy, nasty, infectious bumps are pretty fucking high on that list.

- Smashy