Don’t prop me up beside no stinking jukebox

As I was listening to Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes earlier today, I got to thinking about how I’d like for that song to be played at my funeral.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it that much. I mean, I’d be dead. And everything.

Then that got me thinking about funerals.

You know how people always say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I don’t want a funeral, I just want everyone to have a freakin’ PARTY!”

Well, you know what?

When I die?

I WANT PEOPLE TO BE SAD, DAMN IT.

I want my friends and family to bawl their freaking eyes out. You know, the ugly cry. Punctuated with howls and snot bubbles. I’m talking totally devastated, can’t-live-their-lives-any-longer-without-the-sheer-awesomeness-that-was-LRC, suicidal states of mind.

Well, maybe not suicidal.

But would a little moderate to severe depression be too much to ask?

I didn’t think so.

When I die?

YOU BETTER NOT THROW ANY FUCKING PARTIES.

I MEAN IT.

YOU BETTER CRY, GOD DAMN YOU.

MOURN THIS GREAT LOSS, MOTHERFUCKER. SHOW SOME RESPECT FOR THE DEAD AND PUT DOWN THAT MILLER LITE.

Unless you’re drinking your sorrows away.*

Then that’s okay.

Does this make me a bad person?

Obviously not, because there’s gonna be a lot of sad, crying faces at my funeral.

And you don’t cry for someone who’s a bad person.

You just don’t.

*which is what I do every weekend

Crazy Girlfriend Behavior

In every new relationship, I think every woman should be allowed a small amount of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.

Now, by “behavior,” I don’t mean Facebook stalking his ex and Fed-Exing her a dead rabbit with the phrase STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN YOU LOOSE, FELLATIOUS WHORE stained in blood into its fur.

Rabbits are small. You can’t fit that whole sentence on a rabbit carcass.

Common sense, people.

I don’t even mean Facebook stalking any of his exes, like, at all. Festering rabbit carcass notwithstanding.

Trust me, girls. Don’t do it. You won’t like what you see.

The type of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior I fully endorse is this:

Writing A Passive-Aggressive Blog Post Shit-Talking His Ex-Girlfriend That May Or May Not Include A Fun Diagram That Took Twenty Minutes To Make In Photoshop!

Duh.

That was so obvious.

(Not only does this method work for current boyfriends’ exes, it ALSO works for ex’s current girlfriends [see last few sentences of this post]. Bonus!)

Here’s the thing.

The Lawyer?

Lives next door to his ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you read that right.

The Lawyer could fart on his back porch and his ex could probably smell it ten seconds later.

I’m sure you can imagine just HOW FUN this is for me.

Let’s go in depth, shall we?

The way The Lawyer’s house is set up is like this (click to embiggen):

*Map not to scale and probably completely inaccurate. Oh look, trees!

(Oh yeah, I’m calling her Skinny McSkanky, because she’s 1) skinnier than I [also acceptable Crazy Girlfriend Behavior: being jealous of his ex because she is skinnier than you and giving her a moniker like Skinny McSkanky] and 2) duh, skanky.)

So The Lawyer and his ex-step-uncle live on a lakefront property together with a third house, the one that Skinny McSkanky rents from Lawyerman’s G-Pa. I guess The Lawyer and Skinny McSkanky started dating out of convenience. That, and they are both young, attractive individuals. ANYHOOSITS. Lawyerman told me things with him and S.McS didn’t end well. I didn’t ask for deets because 1) it’s none of my business and 2) if it had anything to do with anything sexual my brain would asplode right there and well, I just don’t want that happening.

Now, I must say this. S.McS has never been anything but nice to me and I am probably a major bitch for writing this post.

BUT.

I am allowed to be somewhat completely irrational because of:

Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.

Enough said.

ANYWAY. As you can see by that lovely map I made, the pool is adjacent to S.McS’s house. Despite this fact, the pool is shared by her, The Lawyer, and the Lawyer’s ex-step-uncle.

SO. Whenever The Lawyer and I want to go swimming, we have to be all up in S.McS’s backyard and shit.

It’s really not as bad as it sounds, but still. It’s not THE most comfortable thing to do.

I should mention here that this pool is not an ordinary chlorinated pool. It is filled and drained on a regular basis with spring water that is FREAKING FREEZING COLD. This makes it good for taking baths in. Which The Lawyer does from time to time, and apparently others use it for this purpose, too.

Because, next to the pool, on the edge of S.McS’s porch . . .

I found this:

And thought to myself:

AHAHAAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHha!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

BITCH HAS GOT EMBARRASSING DANDRUFF!!!!!!!!!

And immediately I felt better about myself.

I never mentioned it to The Lawyer.

Because these thoughts are allowed to exist in my head only.

And also apparently, on this blog.

(SHE EVEN GOT THE WAL-MART BRAND. BITCH DIDN’T EVEN SPRING FOR SELSUN BLUE)

Romance is not dead

Things with The Lawyer are going swimmingly, thank you all for your concern. There’s not really much else I can say on the whole situation right now. You’ll forgive me, yes?

For just over two months now, I’ve been enjoying the best sex of my life. No lie! We do it probably 7 or 8 times per week. And it is glorious.

Sometimes, when you’re as horny as we both are, however, the art of seduction gets lost.

“Let’s make love” (ok, I never say this, and neither does he, but let’s just use this as an example of something “romantic” people say to let their SO’s know they want to touch dirty parts together repeatedly) becomes “you wanna do the sex now?”

Post-sex phrases like “that was fantastic” and “was it good for you?” turn to “good fuckin’, baby” with an ass slap.

I realized that maybe we needed to slow down a bit. Be a little more . . . romantic.

So when we were lounging at his pool yesterday, I said to my Lawyerman while giving the flirty eyes, “Come here.”

He came over to where I was sitting on the edge of the pool and put his hands on the small of my back. I kissed him softly and then turned his ear toward my lips.

“Baby, tonight, when we’re fucking . . .” I whispered softly.

“Mmmhm?”

“I’m gonna fart so hard it makes your balls vibrate.”

Another melodramatic one from yours truly. Yay.

Oh, dearies.

I feel the need.

The need . . . to blog.

I feel like I’ve been keeping you lovely freaders so out of the loop. And while I don’t blog just so others read it? I do feel a compulsion to blog, even though I don’t know exactly how to vom it all out into this little WordPress box.

When I write it down? It sticks. It’s more . . . real.

Dig?

I’ve started several drafts and haven’t finished any of them. This is highly unlike me, as I hate to let drafts just hang out there without being finished by at least the end of the day.

Have I wanted to blog about my trip to the quickie store to buy porn for Dating Without Pants (now defunct blog, tear) since he won my contest (even though I still haven’t sent his prize and I have an anal-centric porn DVD just chilling on my computer desk for anyone to find if they want to)?

Of course I have.

Have I wanted to blog about the fact that New York called me and asked me to come over to his house to pick up something, and when I went over there, he looked as if he hadn’t bathed in six days and his house was a complete wreck? And the fact that The Lawyer called when I was at NY’s house? And that I answered the call and talked to him while NY was standing right across the room from me? And that it was a big YES I AM OVER YOU and he hasn’t bothered me since?

You KNOW I have.

But I’ve been spending so much time with Lawyerman that I have barely any time to blog at home. And my brain has been unplugged at work recently because we’re between quarters.

And I’ve had zero alone time to sort out all my thoughts and emotions.

I’m going to need some “me” time away from The Lawyer, and I hope he doesn’t think I’m giving him the kiss-off. But lately? Since we’re around each other so much? I’ve begun to get weird feelings. About stuff. And I’m afraid if we never leave each other’s side? The Crazy is going to rear its ugly head far sooner than I’d anticipated.

I really, really want to talk about what’s going on, but I just don’t know what to say. No, The Lawyer hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s a difficult situation to explain and I’ve already had difficulty explaining it to my, you know, TANGIBLE friends.

I just feel so helpless in my situation and I don’t know what’s going to have to happen for the situation to become resolved. It’s a shitty feeling . . . sorta like purgatory. I can’t talk about how I feel without it becoming a HUGE, serious issue, yet I can’t just let it go. I’m not ready to break up over something stupid that I’ve probably fabricated inside my own mind. But I’m not ready to talk about it, either.

I don’t want my freaders getting off The Lawyer’s bandwagon. Like I said, he hasn’t done anything. It’s all right here bouncing around inside my brain.

At least . . .

I certainly hope it is.

Because I certainly can’t handle another heartbreak right now.

Dirty texts, body farms, and incest

Oh, hello there, blog!

I almost forgot you were here!

I was telling Andy the other day that I feel like I should be blogging more regularly. That I shouldn’t start being boring just because I have a boyfriend. And while I don’t want to blog only to have something up here and be able to say, “Well, I blogged. Now I can get back to reading TFLN my low-paying job,” if I stopped blogging now, I’d feel that it was a result of being boyfriended.

And I can’t be havin’ that.

I’m an independent woman, yo.

This is MY SHIT.

Anyway.

So after all that whining about Being My Own Person and Not Allowing My Relationship To Define My Blog, I’m going to talk to you about my boyfriend.

Swell.

So, this past week was the longest we’ve been away from each other. He had some continuing lawyer education crap in Buttfucky starting Tuesday, and I had a wedding to attend on Saturday. He was coming home Friday, and I was leaving that same day, before he got back home. So it was Sunday before we could see each other again.

In a new relationship? Where it’s all sex, all the time?

Six days is a Long.

Fucking.

Time.

So what did we do to pass the time?

We sent naked photos of ourselves to each other!

Awesome!

I admit, this was my first foray into amateur porno photography. No man before The Lawyer has ever received a dirty picture from me, except that one time I sent Murray a picture text of my boobs. So I felt a bit cheesy doing it, but we did have a lot of fun. It’s a good thing we’re both on Verizon, because holy hell the amount of texts we sent each other last week. Lawd have mercy.

I had some real gems from The Lawyer: Drunk In Buttfucky Edition. I would have saved them, but there wasn’t enough room on my phone. They were somewhere along the lines of “I cn haslryd stadn up rghhtnow” and “jesus peprmnt telphone ham sandwch.” These were still going strong into the weekend when I was in South Carolina at my cousin’s wedding.

So I spent about 40% of the reception going into the bathroom to meet his demands of “show me your boobs/ass/vagina.”

Class. I has it.

Some other lovely bits of information I picked up at the wedding?

One of my cousins works on the body farm at [Southern University], where he has the distinct pleasure of boiling the skin and meat off dead human bodies, then piecing back together their skeletons. Hello, dream job! JEALOUS!

And here’s the really sad/fucked up info.

The mother of the bride? AKA my dad’s sister? Dating. Her. Stepson.

Let me repeat that. Step brother of the bride? Is dating the bride’s mother.

If you STILL haven’t wrapped your head around that one—this means that my aunt is dating her ex-husband’s SON.

They even have the same FIRST NAME.

FUCKING. KILL. ME.

Someone pissed in my gene pool.

Then vomited and shat in it.

I hate the fact that I’m even admitting this. It makes my family sound so trashy. But hey. The things we admit for blog fodder.

And if THAT weren’t exciting ENOUGH . . . when I went to The Lawyer’s house upon my arrival back home, we immediately got down to business and were promptly walked in on by his mom, who is visiting town to watch his swearing-in.

FAIL.

TMI Thursday: It rubs the lotion on its skin

Does everybody know what time it is?

TOOL TIME!

No, damn it. Get out of my blog, Tim Allen. And put down the coke straw.

It’s . . . TMI Thursday!

Okay, let’s get right down to business.

So once I was dating this guy. At this time, we’d been dating for about a month and had yet to do the nasty. I really liked him and I hoped that inviting him to a party and getting him drunk enough would result in a little after-party sexytime.

I’m such a man sometimes.

Except when I cry at my desk. Like this morning.

But I digress.

ANYWAY. So we went to this party and proceeded to get sloppy, nasty drunk. After becoming sufficiently wasted, we stole some cookies from the snack table (this was a Grown Up Party with actual food in place of a drug buffet a la college parties).

What, your college parties didn’t have drug buffets?

Loser.

So my man friend and I left the party with our stolen cookies, went back to his house, and began sucking face.

It’s finally going to happen! I thought.

Oh yes. It did happen. I’d gotten him drunk enough to slip me the tubesteak.

However . . . apparently, it had been a while since he’d had sex, considering the fact that he lasted all of about, oh, three minutes.

Yeah. Lame.

So we started doing Other Stuff.

The details are fuzzy at this point considering we were both tanked, but I do remember this. At one point, he shot his swimmers all over my back.

And instead of going to get a towel? Like a NORMAL person would do?

He proceded to rub his semen into my back. Like lotion.

Vigorously.

My mouth was agape in horror. But I was too drunk (and too enamored with this dude) to say anything. I just waited until he was finished and we got back down to business.

Is this, like normal? Do other people do this? Because it sure as shit weirded me the fuck out.

So I guess I just had a nice cum lotion layer on my back all night. Awesome.

Maybe he was trying to give me a sensual semen massage?

(Doubtful.)

And what was even weirder? The next morning, when he requested morning head (which I graciously gave, because, again, enamored with the kid), he pulled my head out from under the covers when he was about to come . . .

and then he came all over himself . . .

and never cleaned it up. He put his clothes on and went about his day.

Maybe he had some kind of weird evaporating semen?

I don’t know. But I never quite figured it out.

My guess is, he was just gross as fuck.

I sure know how to pick winners!

I don’t mind the yelling so much as long as he doesn’t break out the hand saw again

Guys like sports.

I get that.

Some of you, though? Just baffle the shit out of me with your shenanigans.

The Lawyer, for instance.

The Lawyer is a University of Florida alum. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and shits Florida athletics. He’s one of those guys.

This year, Florida’s softball team is the #1 seed in the Women’s College World Series. Since regular season games aren’t televised, the WCWS is The Lawyer’s only chance to see them in action.

During a UF vs. Alabama game on Sunday, we were starting to give up hope on the Gators. They were down by 3, and the end of the game was drawing near. If they lost, they’d have to play another game later that night. Neither of us wanted that to happen.

When the game ran long, it switched over to ESPN 2. When The Lawyer changed the channel, his piece of shit TV just decided it was going to turn itself off.

After much swearing and hat-throwing, The Lawyer got an idea. He retrieved a smaller, even shittier TV from storage, and set it up next to the other TV. There was peace in the forest again.

Until, that is, THAT TV started fucking up.

Oh yes. The picture would come and go. Audio stayed the same but let’s face it. You don’t want to listen to the game when you could be watching it.

The Lawyer surmised that the TV’s were becoming overheated. So he went into his bedroom and grabbed his fan. He plugged the fan up behind the smaller TV and put it directly next to the TV’s vent.

“You’re a freaking nut,” I said.

“Oh no. I’m not done.”

He grabbed his tool bag and pulled out one of those hand saws (sorta like this one), and began SAWING THE BACK OF THE TV OFF.

Behold:

The Lawyer's handiwork, taken with my camera phone.

Now that, my friends, is the dedication of a sports freak. The Lawyer sawed his TV up to watch ONE INNING of a WOMEN’S SOFTBALL GAME.

His efforts paid off when the TV started working again just in time to see the Gators’ first baseman hit a walkoff grand slam in the bottom of the 7th.

I think it’s all a result of The Lawyer’s devotion.

—

In other news, The Lawyer and I are “official” now. My first real boyfriend since the breakup with Murray, almost a year to the day later! Of course, he saws up TV’s, but other than that? Completely normal.

Riiiiiight. Who am I kidding? Like I could ever date anyone “normal.”

Now I’m going to have “It’s a small world after all” running through my head all day.

The other day, The Lawyer and I were discussing the difficulties of small town dating. He said that when he starts dating a new girl, he usually takes her on dates at least two counties away so there’s no risk of anyone seeing him with a woman who, unbeknownst to him, may in fact turn out to be a psychotic whore.

Such a gentleman.

I’m guilty of the same thing, though. So we’re even.

Even though The Lawyer and I have been dating over a month now, we’re still not using the “girlfriend/boyfriend/relationship” label, and we are rarely seen in public together unaccompanied by others.

That’s just how we roll.

Don’t hate.

We’re both playing it safe. We know tongues will start wagging soon enough.

Did you hear that LRC and The Lawyer are dating? I heard she’s pregnant! Yep, knocked up already. I’m  pretty sure they’re getting married next month, before she starts showing. What a pity, because I heard he cheated on her with a Puerto Rican prostitute.

Folks in my town have very active imaginations. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is probably the type of rumor that will befall me.

Given the disappointing size of my town and the rampancy of its rumor mill, it’s no surprise that The Lawyer and I had this exchange while playing bar trivia last night:

The Lawyer: I just saw that guy’s cleavage.

LRC: Who? *whips head around, in true nondiscreet LRC fashion*

The Lawyer: He’s gone already. He was wearing a deep V-neck T-shirt, down to here *points to sternum*

LRC: Wow, what a douche.

Minutes pass.

The Lawyer: That guy.

Adam walks in.

LRC: (surprised to see Adam looking so metrosexual in a green deep-V T-shirt and a new emo haircut) Oh, him? That’s just Adam. What the hell is going on with him? His hair is all douchey and he’s sporting man cleave! Weirdo.

The Lawyer: Well, you’re the one who DATED him.

LRC: Only for like a month! And he never wore shit like that when we dated.

The Lawyer: Blink.
Blink.
AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAA you DATED that guy? I was just kidding!

Ewps.

Heh.

Small world.

(Naturally, since Adam spoke to me last night, I awoke to a blank text message and missed call from him at 2am. It. Never. Stops. Folks.)

In other news, today The Lawyer will find out if he passed the Bar in [our state]. It’s very likely that he did because he already passed in [another Southern state, rhymes with Butt-fucky], but he said there’s always a chance that he didn’t pass.

Either way, we will be drinking heavily this weekend.

http://longredcape.wordpress.com/2009/05/08/pregnancy-also-the-ideal-man/The

Open letters to asshats everywhere

Dear Guy Who Feels The Need To Yell At Me From Inside His Dodge Pickup Truck With The Trailer Hitch Ballsack As He Drives By Me, And Also To Men Everywhere Who Think Catcalling Is An Acceptable Way To Pick Up A Woman And Holy Hell I Am Six Hundred Millionty Years Old Because I Just Used The Term “Catcalling”:

Look. I realize I am one hot piece of ass. You should be so lucky to get a bite of all this deliciousness.

(Apparently, not only am I elderly, I am also a Choco Taco.)

(I know what you’re thinking, and you have a dirty mind.)

(Pervert.)

(PS: I like you.)

Ever since I grew a badonkadonk (yep, I’m a white girl with an ass—and by the way, I am loving the way Urban Dictionary defines “badonkadonk”: Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior) and shed my braces, you have made a semi-regular appearance in my life. And ever since, I have been completely and utterly baffled.

What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?

Do you want me to run after you, screaming, “Wait! Come back, dream man of mine! I can’t wait to run away to the trailer park with you and get started on becoming barefoot, pregnant, and domestically abused!”

Do you want me to return the favor and yell “right back atcha, hot stuff!”?

Or do you just want to pay me a compliment?

I will give it to you. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed.

But I don’t think you’re going to be pulling any broads with your method.

Still?

Don’t stop doing it.

The ego boost is nice.

Shakin’ that ass just for you,
LRC

——

Dear My Best Friend Claire’s Boyfriend Who Won’t Actually Admit To Being Claire’s Boyfriend Even Though Y’all Have Been Dating Oh Around Six Years Now And I’ve Told Her A Bajillion Times To Dump Your Ass Because You Two Are In A Go Nowhere Relationship And Claire Does Actually Want To Be Happy At Some Point In Her Life:

Facebook messaging me that the pair of pants I wore the other day looked good on me was completely inappropriate and a little bit creepy. I will now feel uncomfortable around you pretty much every time I see you.

Keep your eyes to yourself,
LRC

—–

Dear Guy Who Randomly Started Calling Me On The Phone In Middle School And Asked Me Out On A Date Which Never Came To Fruition Because Supposedly He Was Trying To Play A Cruel Joke On Me But How Do You Play A Joke Like That On Someone Who Doesn’t Even Like You Like That And Obviously This Was A Poorly Executed Joke Because Seriously What The Hell Dude You Can’t Even Do That Right And You’re Not Even Cute, To Boot?:

I saw you the other day. Nice double chin.

Karma’s a bitch,
LRC

*crickets*

Anyone there?

Look, I know I’ve been scarce around these parts. But there’s a reason for that.

The central idea of this blog is my conflict with men and relationships. I’ve had some bad luck with Those With Penises in the past year and for a while, it seemed that the crazy didn’t stop.

But my conflict? For now at least? Has been resolved.

I have a man who makes me want to simultaneously bitch-slap and shin-kick the old me. The me who put up with all that nonsense. All that flakiness. All that confusion.

My conflict has been resolved. At least for now.

I will continue to write here. I’m not giving up the blog. I mean, my relationships with men aren’t the only interesting thing about me. They’re just the most consistently insane things about me.

But right now? I’m happy. The calm has descended. I’m not constantly agonizing over men and their bullshit.

Plus, I’m getting sex on the regular now.

Which is pretty awesome.