I Like Your Necklace, Can You Cook? (Alt title: Everyone is a Slut)

A little while ago I posted about going through a break-up and all of the shitfuckery fun that that entailed. I got a lot of lovely words from readers (read: lots of useful advice on how to drink my problems away) and it helped a lot (my doctor might disagree).  Now that summer is upon us, it’s become clear to me that I need to push myself to get out there and meet some new motherfuckers.  What’s the best way to meet people? Online dating sites, of course!

I’m mostly just looking for more people to drink vodka slushies with while dodging the cops in shady areas of town… but apparently I’m supposed to play coy and appear like I have my shit together so that I will be elusive enough to draw in attention from unsuspecting girls on the internet.  (When I say ‘unsuspecting girls on the internet’ it really just makes me sound like a predator, doesn’t it? …Ya, that’s what I thought.)

I’m not going to dick you guys around and pretend online dating is a foreign phenomenon to me. I’ve rode that bicycle before… numerous times. I’ve met a lot of people off of the World Wide Web, and for the most part, it’s actually worked out very well (says the single girl.) I’ve made some great friends and my liver has met many highly capable contenders, but let me tell you, it takes patience.  And by patience, I mean balls of steel. Allow me to elaborate.

When you online date, you have to brace yourself to feel like a sack of shit, covered in boogers. In other words: You will take your time writing out a witty, concise message to someone you think you’d get along with, take a deep breath and hit ‘send’, and wait for their response. A day later you will see that they’ve since been online, they’ve looked at your profile and decided that you aren’t worthy of their time.  What the fuck? You complimented them and made it clear you were just looking for a friendly chat, but they’ve decided you’re a hideous beast from the depths of their nightmares and you should go fuck yourself. (Okay, fine, I may be overreacting, but I’m in a vulnerable place, guys, and these bitches be whack.)  Maybe I should consider adding more bling to my profile pics. I hear women like shiny things. (Why yes, I am talking about vajazzling.)

I have only been on the site for about a week and while I’m already pretty fed up with it, I’m trying to stay positive. I have learned, however, to steer clear of it after a bottle or two of wine. Trust me when I say that there is nothing but shame and horror emanating from the computer the following morning when you browse the ‘sent’ folder of your newly pimped-out profile. You probably should have reconsidered messaging that girl to tell her she’s “hot as balls”, or from sending that girl with the boyfriend and kid two ‘e-roses’ alongside an e-card reading “i cuold be yerrrr evreythinging.”

Live and learn, right folks?

It's 4am, I'm Probably Drunk on Your Porch.

Breakups are fucking stupid.

Sure, it’s nice to have an excuse to be a snotty, puffy-faced, teary disaster for awhile, but overall, I’d say the whole breakup process is pretty fucking douchey.  I’m not going to say that I wanted to use my guitar strings to slit open my wrists while wheezing out the painful, melodic tunes of Melissa Etheridge… but something a little less bloody, butequally as humiliating has most definitely crossed my mind.

For the purpose of this entry, I decided to browse the internet for helpful ‘tips’ on how to get over the person you broke up with. This is going to come as a pretty big shock, but everything I found was fucking stupid.

In my search, I stumbled on this helpful picture:

This image was paired with the motivational message “Let go of your negative emotions!” 

Ummmmm…..

This guy isn’t letting go of anything. He’s giving a thumbs up while holding a shirt that says “Negative Emotions.” If you ask me, it looks more like this giant douchecanoe is excited by his recent acquisition of a shitty t-shirt promoting an even shittier emo band. 

Also: The 90s are over, dudebro. Smiley face t-shirts are out.

...Oh, and this guy is most definitely about to kill those birds. 

Dealing with a break up? Go kill some motherfucking birds!

One particularly helpful article suggested that I call all of my friends and force them to hang out with me. They encouraged calling everyone, including the people I haven’t spoken to in ages. Apparently, if you’re a disgusting, emotional disaster, everyone has to understand because you’re in a ‘time of need’. 

They also suggested I look at all of my old photos to make myself cry like a motherfucking suicidal banshee. 

The article assured me that my friends will still love me, though. I mean, who doesn’t love an anxious, wheezing bag of hysteria showing up at their door at 4 am?  

 

I think I might test out their theory.

WHADDUP former elementary school friends. Shit’s about to get real.

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As a side note, midway through this article, a helpful advertisement let me know that there are nine magic words that would make my man addicted to me.  (That’s the dream, right?) 

 

While I didn’t actually click on the link, I’m going to guess what those 9 words are:

1-     Anal

2-     Threesome

3-     Boob-job

4-     Blowjob

5-     Anal

6-     Letmemakeyouasandwich

7-     Brazilian

8-     Anal

9-     Idon’twantkids

Listen. I realize that list is hardly fair to men and I’m being rudely presumptuous in thinking this magical list of keywords will keep a man addicted to his woman, but bitch, please. Y’all know you’d be excited if your woman said she’d make you a sammie while you screw her in the pooper.

How sexy was that sentence?

Yep.

Moving along.

I also stumbled on this picture, displaying the utter sadness that one feels when their heart is shattered into a million pieces. 

 

You guys.

This bitch is sad.

She’s so sad she’s using an umbrella when it’s sunny out.

Her sadness is so powerful she can’t even handle the sun.  Except on the bottom half of her face… that part of her face is not so sad.

Oh, and the best thing about this article? It was linked to an even more helpful article called ‘How to Deal with a Broken Rib.”

I’m going to leave the domestic abuse jokes aside.

For now. 

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It's most definitely time for a drink. Or 12.