Just apologize and skip to the makeup sex.

For some ungodly reason, I have a lot of male friends.  They inexplicably turn to me for girl advice, probably out of desperation more than anything, but I try to humor them...at least until they realize what a goddamn train wreck I am and abandon me to find someone better to bleach the filth of their dirty laundry. 

Old Friend/Coincidentally Ex-Boyfriend:  "My current girlfriend is having a meltdown.  I think I somehow caused it, but I don't know what I did, or how I should respond."

Me:  "The fact that you are at my apartment and I'm drinking does not bode well for this conversation."

Him:  "I don't understand women at all."

Me:  "Ew, stop feeling sorry for yourself.  That is not going to butter up your woman's snatch.  Listen--you are fighting a losing battle trying to figure out where you went wrong.  If you want to have a successful relationship, just accept that sometimes, you will have to apologize for things that you don't know or understand.  If you validate her meltdown, she can get over it faster.  In fact, you
should not be here.  You should be with her.  Probably having makeup sex by now."

Him:  "You had meltdowns when we were together."

Me:  "I'm a woman, meltdowns are part and parcel, darling.  The thing you should know is that if a woman is having a meltdown and she doesn't have any girlfriends to vent to, she will inevitably call up her male friends or ex-boyfriends to meltdown to them, and maybe one of them will come over with a six-pack and a dimebag and intentions of getting his dick wet, and they'll get supremely fucked up and end up having sex..."

Him:  (shock and horror)

Me:  "...but it won't even be good sex, because how the hell did you get so close to that guy without knowing he was so lousy in bed, and why the fuck is he sweating SO much on top of you?  And then you're just stoned as shit and you wanna pass out but halfway through him drilling you, he's taking the time to tell you--WHILE he is still inside of you--that this sexual mistake doesn't mean he wants to have you as a girlfriend, it doesn't mean anything, not that you're not worth it or anything, but he doesn't want to ruin the friendship, and you're just like, "This was ruined because you were such a terrible lay, not because I wanted to be your girlfriend," and then after it's all over, he shows up on your doorstep after you've been avoiding his calls for two months and he's crying like a bitch because he suddenly thinks he's in love with you and that he had been sooo wrong and how could he not see that you could be so great together?!  But you just look at him, disgusted, and decide you're better off with a one-night stand or a vibrator."

Him:  "Oh my God... I have to get home.  I'll text you later."

Me:  "Bring her flowers.  Or wine.  Or if you really want to make it work, diamonds."

Him:  (pausing at the door) "Did...did that happen when we were together?"

Me:  "Actually, that was right after we broke up.  You might wanna make sure your girl doesn't have your friend Greg's number."

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.

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.