I never claimed it was a GOOD blog post.

Wait a minute . . .

. . . what’s this?

Is it . . . could it . . . be?

A BLOG?

From LRC?

Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.

Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:

Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”

Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.

Why, you may ask?

Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.

And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!

And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.

Obviously.

With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather

1. take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
2. eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.

Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.

Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.

So yeah.

I guess option number one is out.

While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.

Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.

I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.

Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.

SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE

So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.

TMI Thursday: Things About Flatulence

Happy TMI Thursday, toots and tootettes!

OBLIGATORY ASIDE ABOUT “TOOT”: Next time a conversation gets too serious, clasp your hands together, furrow your brow slightly, and without blinking say the word “toot” with a straight face. That’s a little bonus LRC-adventure for ya. You’re welcome.

For today’s TMI Thursday I will share some Things About Flatulence with you, in bullet form.

• Now that I have an intern in my office (literally, she’s in my office. Like, sits-across-from-me-at-my-desk-and-I-can’t-read-tumblr-when-she’s-here-because-there-are-too-many-nipples-oh-and-by-the-way-have-you-been-reading-my-tumblr?), I, uh… can’t fart like I want to. I was so ready to just let one rip earlier today until I realized, yeah hi, there’s another person—a person I’m supposed to be setting a positive example for—in my office. Oh, but when she leaves? It’s a regular C&C Fart Factory in here.
• This morning, I was lying in bed with my Lawyerman. I was telling him how crappy I felt and that I just wanted to lie in bed with him all day. “You know what always makes me feel better?” he said. “What, baby?” I asked. “BRRRRONK!!!!!!!!!” Yep, he farted. Of course. I forgot about it for a minute because I didn’t smell anything (also, he farts about every thirteen seconds so it’s not like this was a rare occurrence) and we went back to chatting. I reached down and playfully snapped the elastic on his boxers. Guess what happened? Yep. Residual fart went directly in my face. Awesome.
• I was already aware of the fact that asparagus is supposed to make your pee smell funny, but until recently I had no idea it would give you pungent, unceasing gas as well. The other night, Lawyerman and I had dinner at my house, and it was quite a lovely meal indeed. Within the half hour, however, I was producing Old-Man-Post-Baked-Bean-Dinner-quality farts with alarming frequency. I was even able to fart on command, punctuating my sentences with the beautiful music of my anus (Gloria Estefan was right—the rhythm is, indeed, going to get you. Gloria Estefan joke courtesy Chandler Bing). After one particularly fragrant bunghole emission, Lawyerman even had to leave the room. Yep. Lawyerman, a 6′1″, 240-lb. grown-ass man was outdone by a 5′3″ (nice try, I’m not telling you my weight) leetle woman. I’ve never been more proud of my digestive tract.

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

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.”

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.

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

Hungry for love and it’s feedin’ time

You’re getting bullets. Deal with it. I’m leaving work in four hours and I don’t have time for B.S.

• After watching a Sex and the City episode involving Samantha, the guy of her dreams, and his tiny penis, I began to worry. Oh God, I thought, What if The Lawyer has a tiny penis?!?!??! because seriously? I can’t be havin’ that. I don’t need a Dirk Diggler or anything, but sex shouldn’t be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Not that I have a  hallway down there or anything, I mean, oh God. There’s no way I can talk myself out of this one. The hole has been dug. So I will conclude with this: The Lawyer does not have a tiny penis. Praise Allah.
• Earlier in the week, The Lawyer and I were exchanging e-mails, and he mentioned coming over to my house after eating dinner at his grandpa’s house. About 30 minutes before I left work, he mentioned that there might be a slight change of plans. His grandpa wanted to meet me. Immediately. So I did the good girl thing and agreed. It actually wasn’t terrible. The hilarity of it all was the fact that they served boxed red wine, chilled, with hamburgers. There were two awkward moments in the night . . . the first was when The  Lawyer’s grandpa said, “Hey we’re selling this house, y’all should get married and buy it” (WHAAAAT????), and the second one came when there was a misunderstanding about my age, and The Lawyer’s uncle thought that he in fact was dating a 19 year old. Okay, I look young, but I don’t look that young.
• New York , in true NY fashion, decided it had been too long since he sent me a random ass text message, so he sent me a message that said only, “corn bread!” I, of course, replied with the obvious response, “turnip greens!” and went back to my NY-free routine. Then, Wednesday night while I was playing bar trivia with The Lawyer (we won first place, by the way, and all our drinks were free), I received yet another text from NY. The gist of it was that his car had died on the way to the airport (which is 2.5 hours away from where he lives) and he had a 10am flight the next morning and no way to get to the airport. He never out-and-out asked me to give him a ride, but honestly? Why the fuck would he be texting me about it if he weren’t trying to hint toward it? So he more or less tells me I’m not important enough to him to make me his girlfriend, goes over a month without seeing me, then all of a sudden wants me to offer to make a 5 hour round trip drive at 10pm on a weeknight so he doesn’t miss his oh-so-important flight to Who The Fuck Knows Where so he can blow his inheritance even more on sushi and promotional materials for his “band”?
  No thanks.
• I’m pretty sure I heard Murray’s name on the radio this morning for getting arrested for DUI. It may not have been him because his name isn’t terribly unique, but the person in question was arrested on the street right next to a bar where one of Murray’s favorite bands was playing last night. If this was, in fact, Murray, whose money management skills are atrocious, then he may not be able to fund the refinancing of the house after this. Also, if he gets his driver’s license taken away without a permit to drive for work (his job requires him to drive around in a truck and watch other people work), he may lose his job. Balls.
• I got a mani/pedi with Ma yesterday and my toes are all smooth, painted, and ready for the beach! I leave at lunch time to head south with The Lawyer.

  We had this e-mail exchange yesterday:
  
  aaand I think that about sums up what we’ll be doing on our trip. Have a fabulous weekend, freaders! Mwah!

Lettin’ it all hang out

I honestly believe that sunshine and warm weather have a direct effect on my psyche and general state of happiness.

Case in point.

This weekend, I went poolside for the first time since the weather forecast turned happy. I threw my body issues to the wind and braved the public with the teeniest bikini I have ever owned. I’ve had it for at least five years, but as long as it never gets too sun-bleached or it never allows my love handles to spill over the top like too-hot rice water in a tightly lidded pot, I am never throwing it out.

It has served me well.

Navy blue and polka-dotted with lighter blue circles, I purchased it from Old Navy for $25. I saw it in an Elle magazine and knew instantly that it had to be mine.

Its tiny-ness has the power to give me the gonads to do things I normally would never be able to get it up for. Yesterday, at the communal pool at an apartment building my cousin’s wife’s family owns, a neighbor brought his 4 foot long king snake out for some sunnin’. And I took that opportunity to grab that snake, put it around my neck, and pose for multiple photo-ops.

This may sound like peanuts to you, but for a generally non-adventurous person, this was a rush. It felt good to put that snake around my neck and let him make me his bitch. And I was surprisingly so non-fazed, the snake took to me rather easily. I wasn’t scared, so he wasn’t scared.

That action inspired me to do something today that I’d never done before.

My parents are at the beach for their anniversary, and I am house/dog-sitting for them while they’re away. They have a fabulous yard which is perfect for sunning, and a misting fan that makes the 90-degree heat somewhat bearable. Upon glancing down at my chest, I noticed how lobster-red my shoulders were, and how alabaster my ta-tas were.

“Well, that’s not good,” I thought.

So I untied the top of my itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, BLUE polka-dot bikini . . .

and decided that just wasn’t going to be enough . . .

so I just took . . . it off.

I sunbathed topless today.

And it was glorious.

I felt very self-conscious at first, despite the fact that my parents’ house is situated on 25+ acres of wooded land and there would be no chance of anyone ever catching me in my naughty act. But despite having a pretty decent body, I’m always self-conscious of the way I look naked. I’m the girl that sprints to the bathroom after sex, hoping I ran fast enough that my body was a blur to the man I’d just gotten busy with.

So, naturally, when the clouds covered the sun at times, I’d shake the proverbial fist at the sun. “Come back! Otherwise, why am I sitting here with my tits out?”

Then, it all started to become more natural to me. A low-flying small aircraft flew overhead, and I thought to myself, “I wonder if he can see me?”

Even if the pilot could have seen me (and for purposes of this post and my self-esteem, I am going to assume the pilot had a penis), would he be able to tell what was going on? Would my nips look like those annoying black flecks in otherwise ivory sand?

Then I went to full-on exhbitionism, arching my back to achieve optimum sun exposure. A male cardinal (I know he was male because he was bright red. This is one of those random bits of information I store in my head and try to impress people with from time to time–the females are a more camouflaged brown color so they can hide from predators and protect their young. Damn male cardinals, stealing the spotlight) flew to a nearby tree, where he sat for a couple minutes.

Nearby, a chameleon was doing push-ups, a mating ritual.

Perverts. 

This has been sort of a mini-breakthrough for me. I’m trying new things. I’m becoming more comfortable with myself. I’m lettin’ it all hang out!

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’ve only gotten laid once in oh-nine.

Either way, my boobs look good.

Look, I know I’m awesome. But please, leave me the eff alone.

I debated even writing a post on this because, for one thing, it would be short, and I’m not exactly known for my brevity. However, I discussed it with Andy and he said I should write about it because, “people might enjoy a mini post instead of a mini novel.” Thanks, Andy, for suggesting that I’m long-winded.

The other reason I decided to post today is because Andy said these types of things “typify [my] life,” so I figured it was only appropriate with the theme of my blog.

I mentioned weeks ago that a guy friend and I (let’s call him Gonzo—you’ll see why in a minute) had been getting closer due to our respective break-ups, and we’d been leaning on each other for moral support a little bit. You know, texting a couple times a week and the occasional round of Guitar Hero and Miller Lite.

To give a bit of background on Gonzo, he’s a bit of a pothead and he loves taking painkillers. Hey dude, whatever tickles your pickle. Doesn’t mean I have to partake. But over the past few weeks I seem to have gotten better in my emotional state, while he seems to have gotten progressively worse. Also, he is just a strange guy. Very strange. I don’t know how to explain it. Okay, maybe I do. He is obsessed with Hunter S. Thompson, Tool, and getting fucked up. I guess that about sums it up.

But he’s my friend. And he’s good company.

So I was at his house last night, chillin’, and we were just sitting there—him on the couch, me on the futon (30 years old and he has a futon. Laaaaadiiiiieeeees)—having a completely normal conversation, nothing out of the ordinary, with no sexual tension whatsoever, and he decides he’s going to get up and walk over to me.

Oh, shit.

He pressed his hands into the back of the futon on either side of my head, while I simultaneously pressed my head back into it, hoping I wasn’t catching any communicable diseases. He stopped at my face (THANK GOD) and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

My first thought was, “Why?”

But instead I just said, “Um . . . no?”

I was so caught off guard! What the hell? Was he in on some hot moment I was missing? I’d just been talking to him about the dream I’d had about my ex boyfriend.

The moment was so weird that the details after that are fuzzy. He went back and sat on his couch and started flipping through the channels, as if nothing had happened.

The whole thing was awk.

I stayed around for a few more minutes before I left just so it wouldn’t look like “A’IGHT WEIRDO I’M OUT. ENJOY YOUR NIGHT LOOKING UP MAYNARD JAMES KEENAN VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE AND EATING KLONOPIN LIKE CANDY. PEACE.”

But that’s totally what I was thinking.

So, I went home and went to bed, vowing to stay far, far away from Gonzo. Seriously, dudes really are all about the vajay. I thought I could have had another honest-to-God guy friend. I’d even told him earlier in the night that I’d farted and I hoped he hadn’t caught wind of it. Guess I was wrong about this one.

When I woke up this morning, I had no less than six missed calls from around 12:30 a.m.—a number I didn’t recognize. I was a tad confused, so I checked my text messages.

Two new messages from the unidentified number.

From guess who?

Adam.

Woodwork much?

Seriously. Is this my life?

Oh, and did I mention the other day that I got a text from the BROTHER OF ONE OF MY EXES asking if I was dating anyone?

Aaaaaaaand I just checked my Facebook and Gonzo has written on my wall twice today.

FML.

This is The Final Countdown . . . until I blow grey matter all over the wall

So, you want to hear about my date?

Fine.

If you must.

It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.

He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.

The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.

Because he was kissing my ass.

I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.

Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.

Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.

He put in a burned CD.

And Nickelback permeated the speakers.

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.

Then, he asked the dreaded question.

“So, do you like Nickelback?”

Blink.

Blink.

“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”

I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a  half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.

NICKELBACK.

Let me repeat that.

NICKELBACK.

His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.

Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?

I have to question your intelligence.

Nee, your sanity.

I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.

If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.

So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.

Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.

(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)

Don’t worry, it gets worse.

After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.

The Final Countdown.

Hold me.

I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.

When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.

No such luck.

He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.

He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.

And I didn’t like his shoes.

I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.

And whenever I start to miss NY?

I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.

That makes me feel a little better.