Turn Around, Bright Eyes: You Have 0 Missed Calls and 1 UTI

DISCLAIMER: It’s been brought to my attention recently that there are some of you (that may or may not have penises) that feel as though my choice of topics to write about are perhaps ‘one sided’ or ‘biased against men’. To which I applaud your correct usage of the word ‘bias’, however regret to inform you that your clearly well-studied thesis is, in fact, incorrect. I encourage everyone to form their own opinions and speak loudly about the convictions that they’ve acquired through the course of their lives, but I am also honest and unapologetic about why it is that I do what I do. I will never curb, withhold or stifle my choice of expression in the documentation of my experiences. And in the rare and likely unforeseeable possibility that I might ever edit myself; to the undoubted dismay of you cock-wranglers, it will never be a direct result of something you have expressed disapproval for. So, although I am proud of you for forming sentences with your mouths, this particular series may not exactly pertain to your immediate set of interests, nor will it implore you to look deeply enough at what your ex-girlfriend called ‘mommy isues’ to ever make some substantial headway as to why you have to wear socks when you’re having sex. And as for the women of the world that may find themselves audibly drawing moral issue with or even cringing at my openness about the bare fuckery of my account on this strange single frontier in 2014, I suggest you readjust your engagement ring (though totally good call, by the way, it’s like, way prettier than a Bachelor’s Degree), or I’m sure Buzzfeed has a quiz about which celebrity dad would be least likely to molest you. So, take your pick.


I know that it would be easy for me to continue incessantly and publicly readjusting my tiara of pretension during the flagrant apocalypse (of pervasive mediocrity) that is upon us. Which is why I felt it surpassed beneficial to myself and perhaps some of you, if we peered into the mythical humanistic attributes of my persona.


As for the rest of you: salutations, my fellow deviants.

I believe when we last corresponded I was sinking my teeth in a fresh thirst-quenching new and inexplicably, but solely sexually gratifying relationship with a Gilbert Grape-y character and I was arrogantly but naively embarking on what would prove to be the most blatant and gratifying lesson I have ever learned, that I wasn’t already whole-“heart”edly anticipating. Boy, has this been a tough summer for swallowing. Between my pride, the harsh reality of life, mass quantities of Fireball and those pity blowjobs my friends assured me were now a nuclear staple in today’s dating pool, my esophagus bears a striking resemblance to the burn victim from ‘Girl, Interrupted’.


When I first began my journey for clitoral liberation I had a bit of an ignorant outlook on what it would actually be like to be pursued by these allusive post-college “men”. I could only assume it would be as it’s always been; I would be a total cunt to every guy that hit on me and then depending on just how aesthetically pleasing they were, I would sigh, tell them my real name, give them my number, and then they would send me flowers, shirt-less Snapchats or smiley faced text messages every day until I agreed to be their girlfriend.

I don’t know where you were in ’07, but that shit happened.
So, spare me your revolutionary critiques of my perhaps “skewed” perception of reality.


Much to my ego’s disappointment, I quickly realized that times have indeed changed, and the men of today haven’t sent flowers to a female that wasn’t related to them since Nam.

What I began to see was that there was no longer a “scene”, if you will, of the picturesque courting rituals and men we see fawning after Katherine Heigl in low budget, modern day adaptations of 10 Things I Hate About You.
I learned that these assholes that are both so intriguing with their arrogance and “charm”, but also so deterring with what they scored on their SAT and their abhorrence for females with furthered educations, can be just that: assholes.
Not everyone is Andrew Keegan circa 1999 and acts like a total douchenozzle in front of his friends, but secretly has a heart of gold that only you can bring out of him and the movie ends with him brushing his fingers through your hair after he had just gone down on you for 4 1/2 hours.

(Believe me, no one wanted this to bear truth more than me)

But alas, after countless all-nighters, faked orgasms, skipped meals and dipshits interviewed, it turns out that some men that say they don’t want relationships, actually don’t.
And it’s not like when they said they don’t hold girls’ hands in front of their friends or cook for them or invite them over every night of the week and then do it; it’s like, they actually don’t want to pursue anything that may have the inherent propensity to become an exclusive relationship.

Which is fine, unless you’re like me and as if being a blind narcissist wasn’t enough, once you see the rules they’re breaking for you, because you are just that fucking spectacular, you become a big ole slutty glutton and refuse to stop until you’ve succeeded in catching the allusive ‘big one’. When, in all actuality, it was never a tangible achievement in the first place.

Quite the bitter dose of reality for someone as cocky as I to be mushroom-stamped in the face with the fleshy uncircumcised reality that is the notion that perhaps I can’t change men as effortlessly as I had remembered. And ironically, that there is nothing I can do to alter that from being factual.

But boy, let me tell you, those last few weeks were rough. I was going through old yearbooks, spending hours checking and re-checking my BMI, pore size and nipple-to-breast ratio. Not to mention conference calling my mother and therapist on an almost bi-daily basis, demanding answers.

My pretentious ass had finally gotten what we all hoped was coming; someone with a bigger ego, and self importance than even I could compete with. As well as someone who wasn’t going to let me continue being the exception to every rule he and the rest of the sociopathic assholes with killer smiles had so generously awarded me in the past.
Which is complete and utter bullshit, but I digress.

But for the sake of taking the good with the drunk and giving credit where mediocre sex is due:

I’ll give him that. The man is dumber than a Bachman, but dammit, if he’s not the closest match I may ever find in terms of narcissism and competitiveness. And despite my stomping, screaming and weekly Thursday public reenactments of Thomas J’s funeral from My Girl, we all need to be told “no” sometimes.
And now I, for once, am no longer the exception.


Which brings me to my next point; why do I think that everyone’s boundaries are so easily bendable? I have grappled with the angle I’m going to come at this topic from for weeks now, and though there is an entire generation and culture to blame for this petulant behavior, it is more beneficial to me and to those of you out there that are perhaps novices at taking responsibility or self reflecting to take a good long look in the mirror and leave the knuckle-draggers out of this one.

Contrary to popular belief, I know in my wine cellars of wine cellars that I will not always get my way, and in fact, the older that I’m getting the more I’m trying to remember that the days of me walking all over everyone and everything just to attain something momentary, are in fact dwindling. So despite history, romantic comedies and my iCloud supporting the conclusion that no one is ever not pursuadeable when matched with my creepy unbreaking eye contact, I am conscious of the limitations that lie within my interpersonal dynamics.

I guess it just seemed so assenine to me: not only because I’ve only dated easily breakable man-children who started each relationship saying “I don’t want a relationship” and then were groveling within weeks, but because you can’t predict how you will indefinitely feel about a general situation of hypothetical components when you haven’t ever met someone quite like the one you’re now dealing with. I believe that though we all have black and white boundaries, there is almost always a grey area for the unforeseen. Apparently it was too bold of me to make such presumptions about a man that I have never come across and in regard to such an unfamiliar territory.

Back the the “dating”

Look, man, we are all guilty of putting up smoke screens of “rules”, aloofness and independence to deflect from our humanistic probabilities for feeling vulnerable (which is fucked up in it’s own right, but not abnormal, nor something to feel badly about). Being aware is a bigger step than I think people realize.
Although that doesn’t negate the fact that it would appear as if we are becoming more generationally known for our intimacy issues or more so allergy to monogamy, but when did that begin moonlighting as lying?

I’m more so referencing the conceptual fundamentals of “casual dating” in a world with nudes, Tinder and a bar scene that would make Charlie Sheen let out a gleeful giggle whilst pre-ejaculating into a ficus.
I believe that there are people capable of achieving said relationship level, however I don’t believe most people who claim their subscription are being entirely honest with themselves or the person they’re sleeping with.

Q: What does a young man’s aptitude for having a casual relationship with a girl he cares about have in common with the Schindler’s List gag reel?


A: Neither of them exist

For example:

Since when did the term ‘dating’ start being so terrifying that we have to use code words that in no way denote any kind of commitment?

Oh, you’re talking?
We’re hanging out
…Are you sleeping together?
Are you sleeping with anyone else?
We’re just spending time together

Really, people?

Like the mere idea of attaching yourself to just one person even for an instant makes you so uncomfortable that you’ve created an entirely new language just to avoid anyone building an assumption that you are unavailable for sloppy dirty post-bar sex. And just the possibility of that being true makes your penis smaller? Or what?

That is an issue all in it’s own, mind you, though not even my biggest complaint as I reached the conclusion of my pleasure quest.

Commitment-phobes, I can deal with. Emotionally damaged? Of course.
Intimacy issues? Come on down. As a proud member of most of these sociological castes, I am the last person to pass any judgment on someone for their compulsions that may or may not be caused by a certain Delta Chi that may or may not have given them HPV sophomore year.
Shit happens.
And to quote our girl Lena, “All adventurous women do” (..at one point or another have terrible taste in men with known potential to give them a venereal disease)

*Knocks on wood*

What I will judge, however, is liars, chicken shits and people who define themselves by nonexistent character traits.

Holding firm to this idealistic society of young single professions, when in reality, and after a few gin and tonics, you turn into the crazy ex-boyfriend I thought I left buried in that field.

I would just like someone to explain to me how this idea of limitless freedom in an unspoken, but overall secure, sexual relationship has evolved into a fear ridden arrangement designed to only truly benefit one person. A game of emotional Chicken, if you will. There’s nothing wrong with a more bohemian outlook on things as long as there is a mutual understanding. But when you unintentionally set us up to be afraid to bring up how we’re feeling because we know you’re going to get uncomfortable and shut it down, explain to me how there can be an understanding.

It’s like you guys start things off making all this, what I can only assume is effort, sending cute text messages, inquiring about our days, snuggling and doing a slew of other nauseatingly cute shit. And we don’t question it. And then all of a sudden it stops; in most cases, when Boy Wonder begins to feel anything from any body part other than his scrotum. And then we all of a sudden find ourselves subconsciously switching roles of who’s putting in more energy, then when we actually pull our heads out of our twats, we see that you’ve backed off and the minute we begin to inquire as to why, we’re crazy?

 Really? That’s the word you’re going with? I both pity and envy your life if you honestly consider making queries in regards to your behavior to be “erratic”.
(It’s a synonym for crazy, stay with me here, fellas)

Granted, I’m a self proclaimed and diagnosed crazy person, so perhaps I’m oversensitive or biased, or both.
But honestly, it isn’t like my heart is in my vagina.
I’m not falling in love with someone that is as dumb as they are attractive. Someone who has the emotional aptitude of turtle shit. Someone that thinks Presbytyrian is a diet or someone that never met a Boggle board that didn’t make him go red-faced.

So, for the sake of hypotheticals, and with the prospect of anything long-term out of the picture, what would that leave us, ammunition wise, to be causing us to behave so irrationally? Honestly.

We’re out of our minds for leaving the kitchen, let alone questioning you, but you can call me 6 consecutive times, when you know I’m out with my friends, all because I didn’t respond to your text message?

Don’t get me wrong here. Not that I don’t love a good double standard, because I totally do, but come on, man.
Crazy would be telling you that I’ve masturbated to climax at the sole thought of burning your house down.
Crazy would be that I have Twitter drafts of just pictures of your penis, captioned “FINISH HIM” (in the Mortal Combat announcers voice).
Crazy would be admitting to you that I have questioned everything that has come out of your mouth ever since you told me I was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever woken up to, while I had eyelashes stuck to the inside of my nose.
But merely inquiring about what’s going on your “head”?
You’re right. ERRONEOUS!


How liberating and fulfilling can this really be when most women are made to feel as though they have to walk on eggshells as to not appear to care “too much”, just to preserve the mere possibility of continuing the most oppressive Waltz that ever existed?

And calm the hell down, dick holders. I know it’s not just men that play this psychological Battleship, but considering I haven’t entertained the notion of dating a girl in years, this is just my two cents on this particular roll of the dice.

This trend is not only a fallacy, but an exhausting one. I propose a little self exploration in hopes of concluding that if you care about someone enough to behave like a morning after girl, you delve into those feelings enough to have the realization that you may want to have something more with them, and to feel secure in that yearning. If not, then how about we lay off the bouts of self indulging jerk-off sessions fueled by how successful we think we are at maintaining emotional vacancy?

And girls, where does this get you? Constantly checking your phone for the ghost of sweet shit’s past? Ending up more emotionally invested in these treacherously vapid dynamics than you initially planned? And inevitably feeling shitty about yourself and your choices? There’s virtually no reason why that should ever be our fate, I don’t care how magical the sex is. It’s lazy and we don’t need to be slumming it with mentally premature primates.

What works for some people is not going to work for everyone, and in a time when we’re all trying to blend into this beautifully ironic cult of authenticity, I believe it’s important to remember that if whomever or whatever you’re doing is no longer making you feel good, there is no shame and perhaps a lot to gain from cutting ties.

If Jerry Sandusky would be attracted to the voice he uses when he wants a blowjob, let’s maybe veer left.

And in my experience, the less visible fucks you allow them to be privy to, the more likely they are to reevaluate they’re dipshittery and could, in turn, transform into a non-fucktard and actually grant you some emotional fulfillment.
But again, nothing is guaranteed.
In conclusion, I propose we iron out the fine print of these sexual and emotional crutch relationships and if we cant seem to level the playing field, then perhaps we consider getting in touch with whatever guy was responsible for convincing an entire generation of women to lose the bush in the late 80s.
I’m merely saying I feel like we could come up with some creative shit if we just put our heads (mounds) together.. I propose a vulva-lution, ladies.

Per usual, monsters; Peace, Love and always use a condom; because odds are fair that if he’s not using a condom with you, he’s not using a condom with anyone.

And then where would that leave you?
With one UTI and zero missed calls.


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