October 20, 2010 § Leave a comment
The spookiest night of the year is kicking off another lonely holiday season. Let’s see what normal occupation I can slut up this year… What was once about scary is now about sexy. Really, most of the costumes you find in Halloween Super Stores that pop up for those six sacred weeks before the day of dress up are starting to offer what looks more like bondage than a nurse or a witch or a pirate.
Even a hooker couldn’t walk in those ruby slippers. And who knew the Mad Hatter makes such a good drag queen? Dear God, I don’t remember any of the cast members of Harry Potter dressing like that. I can honestly say, I have never met a bumblebee with so much cleavage. If sports officials looked like Hooters Girls, I don’t think there wouldn’t be much of a game. Will the real Playboy Bunnies please stand up? With fishnets, platforms and a Miracle Bra, you can be anything. It’s like a stripper’s closet exploded.
We are all aware that the slut-o-lantern lights up in front of every single lady’s door this time of year. Screw carving a pumpkin, I need to figure the proper wind chill to alcohol ratio in order to determine how much skin can I show without being too cold. The only thing that’s putting on a costume is my chest. Throw a badge on my nipple and I’m an officer of the law.
Every year, men are more and more likely to get laid at a Halloween party. The naughty angel hikes up her skirt and tosses her halo to unleash her forbidden sexuality while the girl with the animal ears wags her tail and more. What kind of animal? Does it matter? Guys everywhere time break-ups to occur right before this day in order to take advantage of all the ripe pussycats. Meow. Last year, my relationship was one such casualty.
Personally, I love Halloween not because it’s an excuse to unleash my inner whore; I go there too regularly to save it all up for one night. I like to take a more traditional approach and go 100% in the opposite direction, bananas and beavers (yes, I’ve been both). My 2006 Wicked Witch of the West had complete strangers coming up to me asking to take my picture. Needless to say, I get a little excited when dreaming up a costume. Naturally, when I found myself with a BF for the holiday I started brainstorming couples costumes. What’s better than a Willy Wonka accompanied by an Oompa Loompa? Starting the first of September and not a second later, I began flooding his inbox with my suggestions. Will you please be the bacon to my eggs? The bolt to my nut? The Fred to my Wilma? The plug to my outlet? The spoon to my fork? Not exactly a subtle approach. Big mistake.
We had been dating for a while, long enough to assume making plans one month in advance was perfectly reasonable. And we were practically living together, there was no escaping me. He darted the issue going white as a ghost when I brought it up, executed a couple impressive disappearing acts, and even claimed that he was not that into dressing up. Excuse me, bud, but I did go through your tagged Facebook photos at least two years and it seems to me that you do like Halloween. What you like even more is sporting a mustache and taking pictures with the sluttiest getups of the night. He wasn’t tricking me.
Somewhere around October 10th and my list of 101 famous movie couples, he broke it off. Being tied to me through costume would ruin this holiday for him, surely. I spent the next two weeks baking and eating an unghouly amount of pumpkin bread. I spent Halloween watching a Rosanne marathon with my head in a bowl of fun-sized candy bars. I wasn’t asking to dress as a bride and groom wedding topper, but he couldn’t take the pressure. I suppose it saved us both bullshit Christmas presents and an awkward Thanksgiving. But be forewarned, if he’s resisting going as a pair, he doesn’t plan giving out any treats later on.
October 13, 2010 § 1 Comment
I had been dating this guy. Average guy. Not really thinking much of it other than I enjoyed his company, and although I wasn’t really looking for anything serious, I decided to take what came my way. He wasn’t even that cute, that attentive, or that well endowed, but all of a sudden he quits calling cold turkey and I am completely crushed. As if his balls were Godiva truffles. I am now convinced I have just been rejected by the man with milk chocolate balls. My imagination is a flurry: why would he reject me, we were having such a great time? I consider myself a pretty cool chick, and we weren’t even dating long enough for him to really get repulsed by me, my bad habits still cleverly disguised. For all he knew, I was a smart, sexy 26 year-old female, what’s not to like? I repeat: What’s not to like? My anxiety over this swells. The condition sets in. I have developed: The Crazy Girl Syndrome (CGS).
CGS is very common among women who are self-proclaimed “independent, strong females” as they tend to reject the fact that they too, need to be loved by a man. This is to not be confused Idiotic Bitch Disorder (IBD), which is a chronic condition and usually occurs in dumb sluts who wear a lot of pink, love anything covered in rhinestones and require a more than average amount of attention. CGS may affect a normal well-adjusted woman turning her into a irrational psychopath who can’t help herself. This woman will not rest until she has confirmation that the chocolate balls are no longer interested by no fault of her own.
My case of CGS came about after several failed attempts to lure the boy back with basketball and rock show tickets. It’s totally true that you always want what you can’t have, and I am defiantly a woman who usually gets what she wants. As my CGS progressed to the next stage, I found myself settling in a full-on stalker mode. This goes beyond light Internet stalking. I was checking facebook compulsively, following on twitter, looking for him in my rearview mirror, watching his away message on AIM, all the while convincing myself that I was fine with my obsession, that it would pass. Denial of the condition is quite common until you have to hit rock bottom.
So there I was, on my way home when decided I should stop by to see what he was up to, I was in the neighborhood, right? Wrong, I was not even close to his neighborhood, and what did I think I was going to find? Was he going to be sitting there, full on Casanova chocolate balls ready and waiting for me? It was too late to rationalize; I had turned onto his street and slowed to pedophile speed.
Once CGS is in your system, it is best to let it run its course. When a woman is deranged, she becomes obsessed with the chase. If she actually acquired what she was perusing she wouldn’t even know what to do with it. In fact, she probably won’t want it anymore at all.
My “drive by” concluded with me almost knocking on the door. That’s right, parked the car, walked up the front steps, got nervous and walked away only to talk myself back into it. The moment right before my fist struck the door, I was able to recognize exactly how ill I was. Why did I care so much? Truth is: I didn’t, what I cared about more was being rejected. I reiterate: I’m smart, sexy, 26 year-old female, what’s not to like? Becoming aware of my condition prevented me from busting into his house unannounced rating about my chocolate craving, which would have been mortifying to say the least. Shortly after, my CGS subsided and I was able to move on and realize his balls were just as sweaty as the rest of them and stopped into a chocolatier to celebrate. Best three dollars ever spent.