Oct 20, 2015

Mayday! Red Flags.

Hey, it's me... I started dating again...

*That's a pic of me when I found out 90210 was cancelled, but it's eerily similar to how I feel about dating.

In case you're an idiot (or if you're a reader that is colour blind -I'm not referring to you, you can't help it), this is a picture of red flags.

According to my handy friends on Google, red flags typically symbolize:

red flag

1. A warning signal.
2. Something that demands attention or provokes an irritated reaction. 
Red flags are usually something my brain tells me to overlook when it comes to adventures of the heart (and panties), and you would think that by being a veteran in the dating community, that I would have this shit figured out by now... But that would be FALSE. 
Wait, before I go any further I should probably share some blatant "red flag" examples in dating that I shouldn't ignore some of my friends have experienced. Particularly my friend Trixie, what a slut.
* Texting him and not hearing back for days because he's cancelled his date with you to take his ex-girlfriend to Cuba. That's okay, fucker. I'm Scottish and I burn easy anyway.
* Getting ready for your date and he tells you to meet him at the casino because he's only gambled 4 out of 7 days this week. 
* A guy sitting on your couch off and on for an entire year telling you alllll about his ex fiance who had a baby with someone else while they were engaged. UGGHHHHHH
* A guy who literally ghosts you. (A.K.A The Pussy).  Leave him be and never send a follow up text to see if he's been kidnapped by Pablo Escobar's associates. And as much as you wish this was the truth, he's just not that into you. (AT LEAST THIS IS WHAT MY FRIENDS IN MY YAHOO INTERNET CHAT GROUP TOLD ME). So, focus on your pie eating contest or your stamp collection. Your dignity and kitties will love you for it in the long run. **MAYDAY this is a steep learning curve.
* Or one of my faves, this jackass below who likes question games! 
PHEW! He then proceeds to ask what area of the city you live in and if you have a car, so you laugh it off and think. "Haha, he can't be that bad,  those are some legit questions. "
Dummm de dum dum dummmmmmmm!!!!
If you can't figure out which question I'm referring to, you must leave my page and get on the hunt for the pack of wolves that raised you.
These aren't even a quarter of poor Trixie's  dating experiences, but she feels too much like the world's most gullible girl to ever share them on one fucking page. So Trixie is currently sitting on her couch eating meatballs to soothe her soul.
As my number one fan and love life commentator (my mom) likes to tell me, "You're too fucking soft, stop responding to these men.  You wear your heart on your sleeve and by the way you better not be having sleepovers with these men."
I usually respond with, "maybe you didn't hug me enough as a child?"
Then my mom gets all like:
And then I'm all like:
*That's me on the phone drinking a gin martini and ordering pizza
But, eventually I pull my big girl panties up and realize that the sad reality is, my mom is right I really may have an STD  I need to stop entertaining this bullshit.
BUT....when it comes to dating, as a whole, (yes, I may be a cross between Bridget Jones and Lindsay Lohan, but I'm still worth it- my therapist told me so), I'm wildly irritated by the texting habits of this dating generation.

Did you know texting was a game?? I was under the assumption that things such as football and Mario Kart qualified as games, but no. To my surprise texting is a game, even in your 30's! #blessed
I must have been sick the day that Satan came up into the school yard and gathered all the little boys and told them that if a girl ever texts you and asks "How are you doing?", that's a leading indicator that she wants to have your babies and she could be hiding in your bushes. Dear men, please calm the fuck down and get over yourselves - it's a text, not a legal binding contract.
"Waaaaa but I don't wanna text her back"
Meanwhile in reality we're:
"Pffft what text? I'm so busy having fun drinking with my friends that I forgot I texted him."
Then there is another group of sub-people: The LMFAO'ers:  Oh Jesus. I have a real problem with the overuse of  "LOL" and I've previously written about this experience here. However, I've noticed amongst my most recent interaction with men (or at least the ones that want to date me, yay) that there is a serious LMFAO epidemic and it needs to stop. 
This is LMFAO
.....Did the group LMFAO recently explode in popularity? Or is what I'm saying so hilarious that I need my own HBO comedy special? And please, how many of you are seriously LOL'ing your way through your day? Never mind LMFAO'ing. If this is the case, then why are we still struggling with world peace with all this laughing??? 
"Hey Amanda, how are you? LMFAO."
"Hey Mike, are you really laughing your fucking ass off when you inquire about my well being?"
Ugh. Yesterday I actually contemplated dropping my phone into a boiling pot of hot water, but then subsequently realized I don't have enough rice in the cupboard to fix it. And truthfully, what if an LMFAO'er texted? Or the elusive one that disappeared 4 months ago has finally wrapped up his gang bang and sees my worth?
I know all men aren't this bad, my best friends have snatched up the good ones, and I have guy friends that continually dispel this myth for me. But, if there is one decent one left out there for me, wherever he is,  he's getting a giant fucking slap in the face when we meet for putting me through all this.
Night bitches,

Sep 27, 2015

For You, Dad.

September 29th,  1951 - April 10th, 2015

My dad was the first man I ever loved, and if Match.com, Tinder, Plenty of Fish, and OK Cupid can't get their shit together, he'll be the fucking last.

You'll be shocked to learn that this post isn't about dating or love and I'm keeping it super brief. Well, actually it is about love. Love in the purest form, and not the vulgar "I've just had a good dicking" kind of way I normally write about. It's about love for my dad who would have been celebrating his 64th birthday this coming Tuesday.  And if you knew this stubborn, loud, boisterous Scotsman, you'll believe me when I tell you that he entered the world as fiercely as he left it on April 10th, 2015.

Ah, that date. Even writing it makes me nauseated. I could sit here and write all about how I haven't been the same since, or how some days I can't wait to finish work so I can come home, lay in my bed and cry, or how badly I want to hear his voice just one more time, even if that voice is telling me I owe him money and my hair is a fucking mess. (He never missed an opportunity to tell me I'm failing at life).  But I won't. I guess you could say this post is more for myself than it is for anyone else, and I debated whether or not I should do it but I wanted to share something with my family and friends so they too could quietly celebrate his life as well. So that being said, if you haven't stopped reading yet, this post isn't littered with dick jokes and my love for Nutella but that will resume eventually. Just whatever you do, don't go questioning my love for penises and Nutella- it's still as intense as always.

Loving someone who struggled with addiction certainly posed its challenges over the years, But I wouldn't change any of it because it made me who I am and in a bit of a morbid way, I thank him for that. It's taught me to have more compassion for those in need and its taught me to take life's shittiest moments and find the humour and hold on to it (Except for on Sundays. I hate Sundays and nothing is funny ). And most importantly, its taught me to be a better friend and value anyone and everyone
I'm fortunate enough to have in my life.

But, despite the ups and downs, I knew he loved me...even when he shouldn't.

  • He loved me even when he found his 25 year old daughter face down and pant-less in the hallway covered in mustard one morning - I TOLD YOU I LOVE HOT DOGS
  • He loved me even after the time my robe opened when I was walking from the shower and he saw my cooter. (I actually only started looking him in the eye approximately 5 years after the great cooter incident of 2008).
  • He loved me even though the day after prom he watched me reverse our big blue van into a giant fucking tree at the end of the driveway and take off the whole rear view mirror and dent the door. .
  • He loved me even though I'm a walking disaster and he had to fork over his hard earned money for my casts, crutches, and ambulance fees for a solid 33 years of my life.
  • He loved me despite the fact I could somehow use the word "fuck" about 700 times in a 30 second conversation.
  • He loved me even when I was that annoying little girl who walked around the house singing show tunes in my mom's fur coat, while smoking those fake candy cigarettes. 
  • He loved me even though he knew his little perverted 16 year old daughter was watching scrambled porn in her room....nightly. Man, they don't make porn like they used to
  • He loved me even when I made him this touching apron for Father's Day one year when I was in high school:

33 years wasn't enough time, but I'm forever thankful of the time I had and for having him as a father. Dancing in the kitchen will never be the same.

Aug 4, 2015

Inner Thighs 'n Things

Well alert the church elders, it's 1000 motherfucking degrees outside and my inner thighs have actually lit on fire due to a chaffing related incident. Truth is, summer months are a real bitch for those who enjoy meals and happen to have been blessed with the pleasure of losing weight all over their entire god damn body EXCEPT FOR THEIR INNER THIGHS. (It's me I'm referring to, just in case you're an idiot).

Actually, come to think of it, the last time I wore shorts was in the summer of '87 and I just found them, located right up my ass. One minute I'm wearing shorts and the second I start walking... poof just like that, my inner thighs hoover them right up into my lady bits. I'm always too nervous to wear shorts particularly in public since I'm so afraid I'll be watching the news and they'll have a segment on the obesity epidemic and they'll feature the lower half of my body on it. You know what I'm talking about? Anytime the news has a story on weight they always have these sneaky clips of people walking down the street, but they only feature the lower half of their bodies so they remain anonymous. WHERE THE FUCK ARE THESE CAMERAS HIDING? I'm sure as shit I'd recognize my own ass eating my shorts.

Anyway, I could probably write an entire post on my adventures of my shorts disappearing into my body,  but I have more pressing issues such as  How many calories are in meatballs? Is that a rash? Oh I totally shouldn't have google image searched that. I wonder if I can pay my rent in high fives this month? How much do stamps cost? Should I be an organ donor? When will boneless, skinless chicken thighs finally go on sale? Where are all my condoms? There's no way I slept with that many people since New Years Eve! Wait, when was my last period? I should probably watch 'I Didn't Know I was Pregnant 'on TLC, those women are smart! I wonder if I wrote a cheque for 1 million dollars to myself and deposited it, how long would it take the bank to notice? I should probably get orthotics. Whoa! Why the fuck are orthotics so expensive? I'd rather have fallen arches and a bad attitude. Why do I always have to spell out WED-NES-DAY when I'm writing it? What if a plane crashed into my apartment right now? I'm in my underwear and they'd find me in my underwear beneath the rubble. I should put pants on. Man, I really want Kraft Dinner. I wonder if that Asian lady at the nail salon was really talking about me while she did my nails. She seemed so angry. I don't know what I did. I totally should have shaved my legs but I'm just so lazy. Maybe I should get a motorcycle. I feel like women who ride motorcycles are super bad-ass and respected. Mmmm Tostitos and salsa would be soooo tasty right now.  DATING. Yup, my 97 attempts at taking a hiatus from the online dating world have failed miserably, (and I always need someone to sext with) because I get lonely rotting on my couch from Monday-Thursday. US SPINSTERS HAVE A LOT OF TIME ON OUR HANDS, I TELL YA. And truthfully, there are only so many motivational quotes I can find on Pinterest that keep me from sticking my head in my oven on a daily basis.

My mother on the other hand, thinks I date way too much and since my father passed away, her and I have been spending an inordinate amount of time together, so she has plenty of time to provide me with a running commentary on my love life. Wait- can I call getting dick pics from strangers on the Internet a 'love life?' Yes, yes I can. I for one call it flattering that men go out of their way to give themselves a hard on after looking at my profile pictures and reading about how I'd like to have a family and settle down one day...(And it's no secret that talking about the future always makes men's penises erect), so I'm assuming my profile gives them a stiffy in a jiffy and they need to grab their iPhones STAT to snatch a glorious picture of their little one eyed monster, and make sure they get it to my inbox ASAP!

Okay, so back to my mom thinking I'm a whore. A few weeks ago I was telling my mom I had a couple dates coming up and she looked at me and rolled her eyes with complete disgust, "Amanda, you know, those men on the computer are going to see your picture and think 'oh there's that cyber-slut Amanda'. And they'll probably start putting your name on bathroom walls and write 'for a good time call this girl."
Now I don't want to brag here, but how many of you have been lucky enough to have your own mother call you a slut? Don't be jealz.
The latest scandal/saga/nightmare from a suitor in the online dating community is brought to you by the jackass below, who chose his ass as his profile picture. Literally...his ass. And you know what's crazy? So did I!!!  #destiny. It's just too serendipitous for words, really.

(That's a pic of cottage cheese/which also doubles as my ass. However, I have been doing some squats lately only to find my cottage cheese is being lifted higher. #YOLO.

Anyhoodle, let's take a look at the message that launched me into the fiery pits of hell one summer's eve.

I was also shocked to learn we were a 0% match.

Oh and let's not forget about this jerk off as well ...Essentially, he asked me if I sold hard dicks, so naturally I had to respond.

(That was a Breaking Bad reference, so no need to alert the Feds, I don't sell meth).

Omg. His hilarity was just too much for me to handle, so I ate a jar of Nutella and slammed my head off my coffee table to curb the laughter. 

And just when I thought love was dead...

I've decided that writing doesn't quite articulate how I feel after this 2 year long dating spree, so I made a video which captures my truth.


Until next time, bitches.


Jun 5, 2015


Psssst.... I've unlocked a secret society of assholes and they are all located on OKDickFace OKCupid. .

Let's just get this out of the way shall we? - My father passed away in April so I've been dealing with my own private shitstorm, so in the spirit of self torture and to distract me from the depths of my misery, I've signed back up for online dating.... BECAUSE I WASN'T MISERABLE ENOUGH. 
*This is me complaining to my attorney about the last dick pic I received

K, stay with me... I'm not gonna go all 'Tuesdays with Morrie' on you now, nor will this be a blog about the journey of grieving (it's a shit journey let me tell you). I'm still Nanners and I will continue to write obscene things to shame my family on the World Wide Web, it's just taking a while for Stella to get her groove back, ya know?

There was a Nanners pre my dad's passing that would get offensive/stupid/ridiculous/ messages in her online dating accounts and she would just barf in her mouth, sob into a pillow or flip a table over faster than a Jersey housewife quickly screen shot it and send it to her girlfriends... Now, Nanners post her dad's passing, is one that will no longer tolerate shit. *This statement just applies to online dating.(Every single one of my girlfriends just rolled their eyes because in real life this is me...
a super cute doormat

Anyhoodle.... (David, I used 'anyhoodle' just for you.. You're my favourite Italian, despite the stories Jen tells me).

It was a dark and stormy night as I sat on my couch menstruating and praying Jesus would send me a Costco size jar of Nutella. Naturally, I was feeling irritated because that jar of Nutella was M.I.A, so the next logical thing to do was check my OKCupid messages, since I hadn't been penetrated in a while there's no better pick-me-up than interacting with society's largest rejects.

Obviously there were hundreds of messages....THAT'S NOT ME BRAGGING...IT ACTUALLY DOES THE REVERSE FOR MY SELF ESTEEM...I literally sat there in a fit of rage as I scrolled through my messages, as one by one they irritated me more and more. All of a sudden, my fingers started twitching and I rapidly started typing as smoke rose off the keys...that was it...I was responding and I couldn't control it...

These definitely aren't the worst I've received -they are just highly fucking annoying after years of being off and on the online dating scene. Wait, scene? Can I even call it that?

 Por ejemplo...
  Everyone, meet Will. Will is going to die from an infection in his mouth.

Here's a 55 year old jack ass who believes you can't have your cake and eat it too.
Meet Jay. He's online dating for friendship...
Let's be real - you go on a dating site for two reasons
1. To have casual sex with strangers. To have cocktails and meet the love of your life.
2. To have casual sex with strangers  To find out that the love of your life is a liar who has been living a double life and you realize your friends and family are all you've got in this world so you may as well settle in for the night with a pound of Brie and a bottle of whiskey.

But seriously, I don't want to brag here... But I've got tons of friends...*flicks hair* Most of whom I've met in the bathroom at the bar, but still...a friend is a friend and I don't need any from the internet. Actually, I'll be friends with anyone. I only discriminate against douches online and people with super frizzy hair.
One of my favourite things is getting the same creepy fucking message from the same creepy fucking person, who clearly cuts and pastes this message to THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF WOMEN, month in and month out.
When someone is missing an article of clothing...like oh, I don't know...A SHIRT messages me, I always hear wedding bells. The kicker is, this wasn't even a selfie...someone actually took this shirtless pic for him. And the reason I know this is because he has one hand placed down the front of his pants, (which to my delight were open) and his other douchey hand is behind his head. This ain't the 80's or a Sears catalogue, quit the cheesy body poses...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. The day I EVER hand my friend my phone and ask them to take a pic of me with my shirt off, I hope they would:  a) ask what the fuck I'm doing, and b) light my phone on fire because I can't be trusted in society.

Oh and let's not forget Tinder...another site that is causing a layer of ice to grow on my vagina. Btw- I'll be hosting the next Winter Olympics in my panties. I kid you not, the layer of ice is slowly getting thicker (and yes it's ice not chlamydia), but for some reason out of pure loneliness and need for attention and a good ol' slap and tickle I re-downloaded Tinder for the 19th and final time on my bus ride into the office this morning.
As my friend *Claudia Schiffer|* pointed out to me at lunch today "You only ever Tinder when you're angry, Nanners". My friend Claudia is not only beautiful, but wise. And she was right. I really only Tinder when I'm feeling 3 emotions:
More Anger
Angry Tindering is dangerous because there is no telling what direction I'll be swiping, and 10 times out of 10 I end up with a match named Guido who is standing shirtless beside his '95 BMW and he sleeps up his mom's ass - well technically in her basement, but both have the same appeal to me.
This behaviour typically ends up launching me into a stage 5 meltdown, face-down on my couch, while watching reruns of My 600 Lbs Life. - One time, they basically had to take the god damn door off a house to remove a lady who was dangerously teetering close to 700lbs... and EVEN SHE HAD A BOYFRIEND.  *Cue Celine Dion

This is only my first day back on Tinder so stay tuned for my war stories of STD scares!

Gotta run, I'm streaming old episodes of Dateline and Keith Morrison is giving me a lady boner
Oh and Match.com, you can suck it as well. Why are all my matches in Thunder Bay?! I live in the city and I don't have a car. THANKS FOR NOTHING. I'm a firm believer that love does have boundaries and they exist within a 30 mile radius of my apartment.

Mar 15, 2015

What happens to your brain on crime shows?

Hi I'm Nanners and I'm addicted to porn crime shows.

Nothing makes me tingle in my panties more than coming home on a Friday night, curling up in a ball on my kitchen floor covered in Nutella and sobbing  on my couch in my pyjamas and watching Dateline. I've loved shows about murder and haunting tales of betrayal since I was a little girl and watched Angela Lansbury solve crime like a boss on Murder She Wrote. 'Memba that show? I used to love Sunday nights because after my bath my mother would give me a tiny bowl of chips (also known as the "please shut the fuck up for 5 minutes" game) and we'd sit and watch this old bat solve crime.
I mean c'mon, look at that face. If that doesn't scream "I love dead bodies and writing", I don't know what does.
 If you're unfamiliar with this show, Jessica Fletcher (Ang Lansbury) was a successful writer/amateur detective who lived in a town called Cabot Cove where everyone seemed to get murdered and the cops were totally fucking useless, so she was all like "I got this" and solved a ton of murders. Ummmm call me crazy, but if everyone in my neighbourhood ended up dead, that would be a leading indicator to get the hell outta dodge.
  This is me during my last STD test 

Since Murder She Wrote, I`ve developed an unhealthy obsession with a plethora of TV's hard hitting crime shows dramas such as;
Criminal Minds: (in which the creepy killer often reminds me of most of my dates)
Law & Order: SVU: (not gonna lie, when Stabler left Benson, I was a hot mess. I never understood how Olivia could ride around with him all day, and not tap that. Seriously)
Dexter: (so sad it's over, but I've never been more attracted to a serial killer...Only problem is the amount of saran wrap he used...In my opinion, saran wrap was created by the Satan himself, and I've never been successful in tearing the appropriate amount off that fits over anything and doesn't stick together and make me feel like a complete and utter asshole),
The First 48: (real people catching real killers. Whoa. Shit`s gettin`real.)...

And lastly but DEFINITELY not least, and the whole reason why I turn down all dates on Fridays and because no one asks me....Dateline.

Look at that face...nothing and I mean nothing gets by Keith Morrison. If you live under a rock, Keith Morrison is Dateline's best correspondent who has the eerily soothing voice of a creepy uncle. I actually become enraged when I see Josh Mankiewicz or Dennis Murphy are reporting...

Dateline typically reports on mega important stories like spouses who kill each other. Fun! And perhaps because I'm perpetually single, I get off on this.

BUT...although I am admittedly addicted to crime shows in all their glory....It does make me assume a lot of things I probably otherwise wouldn't if I were addicted to Home & Garden Television.

The thoughts that run through my head on any given day are probably a result of being hyper-aware of my surroundings and now believing through the miracle of television that everyone is just a shady fuck. I often find myself thinking:
  • There is always someone behind my shower curtain, waiting to pounce on me... but not in the way I was pounced on during my prom night.
  • When I'm alone, any noise that happens when I turn off all my lights and get in bed is automatically a killer that has been secretly living in my closet for the past couple days, just waiting for his perfect moment to smother me with my pillow
  • Every time I get into my car at night, OBVIOUSLY a face is gonna appear in the rear view mirror and yell "drive bitch"
  • If I'm walking anywhere alone at night, of course I'm being followed
  • When I walk to the gym at 5am, clearly someone is waiting for me in the bushes
  • Ever since I saw an episode of Criminal Minds when a killer was whistling, I now believe that any stranger that whistles has some fucked up hidden agenda and possibly heads in their freezer.
Well, now that I've shared my inner most thoughts on what I believe is really happening in this cold, morbid reality we live in, I'm going to sign off and check the locks on my door. And possibly touch myself.

Night Night

See what prime time TV has done to me? 

Mar 1, 2015

Things I Wish I Could Go Back and Tell my 21 year-old Self

So do you want the good news or bad news first? Okay fine, good it is: I just got in the ultimate face-off with my purse in round 233428 of the game 'WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY KEYS?' I didn't find my keys but this is where the good news comes in...I did find an extra Ativan at the bottom of my purse, so I just popped that bad boy and I'm imagining that this is how Lindsay Lohan feels on a Sunday- really fucking calm.
*I'm totally popping an Ativan tomorrow morning during my commute to the office. It will feel like I rode a unicorn to work. Everyone wins.
**I feel like I may have one or two emotionally stable readers who don't know what Ativan is. Up yours.  Essentially, Ativan is a little tiny white pill of joy that you stick under your tongue when you're feeling very much like an anxious Joaquin Pheonix in the movie Signs.

But.... what you really want to feel is "alright, alright, alright"...like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused.
Get it? Got it? Good.

I guess you're waiting patiently for the bad news I didn't get my period and I don't know who the father is. The bad news is that I'm having somewhat of a crisis over the thought that I'm no longer 21, and life as I know it is slipping through my fingers. I witnessed a large table of friends out to celebrate their friend's 21st birthday at the restaurant I was at last night and I instantly got chest pains. Well, technically those chest pains could be caused from my 4 diet cokes, fries and large quesadilla that was stuffed with 7lbs of cheese. It sounds like I'm complaining about my dinner but I promise you I made sweet love to every last bit of that quesadilla.

Anyway, it got me thinking... what would I be doing if I were 21 right now? What if I could go back and give myself advice, perhaps a good slap or two upside the head? I laid awake for quite a few hours last night fighting with my booty call just thinking of what I would say if I could go back in time and have my 33 year old self talk to my 21 year old self.  There would be a lot of swearing, I'm sure of that.

Here's the best advice I could come up with to myself at 3am this morning:

Don't put that in your mouth: This includes but is not limited to, poutine after the bar at 3am, that last shot of tequila at Jim Bob's which ultimately made you smash your face off the train tracks and get a black eye, stray penises (I shall not elaborate), that 'joint' that homeless guy gave you outside a formal you were attending, that bagel you were found eating in a closet during your university ski weekend. Yes, I was in a closet eating a bagel, but I blame my friends for hot-boxing the car I was in earlier-I have sensitive nostrils and lungs, okay? In a nutshell, whatever doesn't bring your taste buds and your dignity pleasure at 3am, don't put it in your mouth.

Put down the hotdog: Not only have I recently read a bunch of scientific data on what nitrates really do to your body, I also probably didn't need to be eating hotdogs all over the city at 2am just for the sake of my waistline. It also wasn't my fault that I was charming enough back then that these hotdog vendors would let me watch their stand after the bar and help them flip some dogs on the grill. If I never knew that pleasure, never looked in the eyes of a hotdog vendor and asked "can I eat the burnt ones?" then maybe today it wouldn't cause me so much pain?  At 21, I had no idea that my love for hotdogs would eventually lead me down a slippery slope.  At 33 I'm finding myself planning evenings out, around the nearest hotdog vendor (especially the one that plays Latin music all year round), because it's a lot fucking easier than cabbing to one. So let me be frank, if there ain't a hotdog vendor close to where I'm cocktailing, I ain't going. Ugh. If someone had only stopped me years ago.

Bank that coin, girl: From what little money I had in my 20's, I would go back and give myself a fresh one right across the face for not really ever saving a dime. Not realizing that everything in your life after university graduation was going to cost 99% more than you ever anticipated, and you'll be paying bills until you take your last breath, would have been a helpful tip to know. My parents kept saying "just wait until you get into the real world, little girl" but it wasn't really enough to scare the shit out of me and prepare me for the miserable world of personal finances. I watched a ton of The Real World on MTV, and it looked pretty fucking fun to me, so in my head  I was all geared up to YOLO in the real world.
Actually my parents told me I lived on another planet all the time, but I just assumed it was because they realized their daughter was a comedic genious when it comes to accents and the monologues that I would present to them during dinner as a child.
They also coupled their "you live on a different planet" statement with stories of them walking barefoot in the snow to school, blah, blah, blah. Ya, sure you did, but just in case, I went out and bought 4 pairs of boots so that wouldn't happen to me.

Honey, the stress is only gonna get worse. Admittedly, my biggest concern when I was 21 was that I wouldn't make it home in time from Stats class (if I went), to be able to go to the liquor store and squeeze in a shower to freshen up my luscious locks for the bar that night. Frizzy hair to me back then (and still absolutely is), was the one thing that sent me into dark place. Wow. I couldn't sound more superficial if I tried right now.

My point here is that when you take a good hard look at what you find stressful when you're 21 vs, real stress now, it's quite comical. I bet I would never guess that I'd be fighting with my cell phone carrier once a month, worrying about paying my rent, worrying about my parents aging health, worrying about my own health, worrying about work, worrying about these dicks that take you on dates and then disappear, worrying about carbs, worrying about restraining yourself from killing an annoying passenger on the subway, worrying if Olivia Pope and Fitz will ever really make jam in Vermont, worrying that you may be banned from Pizza Pizza over an incident with a cab driver and a drunk patron, worrying that the rash on your body is not fabric softener related, worrying each month that you're pregnant and single....THESE are legit worries.

That jock you were crying over, will be a fat, balding asshole who plays video games and is addicted to porn in his 30's so it ain't worth it sister. Is it just me or do you get a wild sense of delight when your former crush morphs into the loser that he always was, but you couldn't see it? But hey, let's face it, being blinded by charm and sexual attraction happens to everyone at some point. Add booze to that mix and that's a typical weekend for me. All you can do is arm yourself with CIA-like stalking skills and a Facebook account, and you can see for yourself that these former 'big man on campus' types have actually turned into closeted masturbators who play Halo until 4am in their parents basement. So THANK YOU for breaking my heart..you did me a serious favour.

Well, that's all I got for now. I'm sure once my Ativan wears off, I will have thought of 8495302 more pieces of advice, but for now this'll do.

Night, night,


Feb 23, 2015

Karma is a Bitch

Well, here we are 7 weeks into 2015 and my adult acne is flaring up, I accidentally gave myself an episiotomy in the shower while shaving my cha-cha this morning, and I'm fairly certain my new birth control is making me 50-shades-of- bat-shit-cray. #YOLO.
(*For those of you who are about to google 'episiotomy', that's essentially when a woman's cooter is sliced and diced to get the tiny citizen she's birthing, out of her vag. You're welcome).

Speaking of cha-chas, I decided to hop on the birth control pill since munching on Plan B for dinner got pricey in 2014. And truthfully, I'd rather save up that extra money to visit my prison pen-pal in Alabama this summer...His name is Bubba and he's promised me steak.

Just kidding, but I will say that writing an inmate would probably give me greater satisfaction than dating this city's finest rejects and going into overdraft while funding my HD subscription to PornHub.

(I actually googled 'prison pen pals' and there are a shocking number of websites where you can get love right at your fingertips with some of America's finest incarcerated gentlemen. I would provide the links to these sites, but I've seen enough Criminal Minds to worry that somehow an inmate who is currently in 'the slammer' getting his free college degree in I.T,  will somehow find out I posted their link on my blog and get an early parole, only to come to Canada, find me, and put my head in their freezer. So you can fucking google it yourself).


I'm not sure what I thought would happen when the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, but somehow I had convinced myself that in 2015, (me being the experienced, veteran of the Great Dating War of 2014), I would magically only attract the greatest guys. Yup, you heard me: Great. Guys. I would not allow another bad date to happen. I would not be 'catfished' by albinos off the internet and I would not share my tampons with Billy, who is just a giant p*ssy and loves talking about his divorce.  Nope, not me. Not this year.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Good one. I just got a job at the joke store.

Well, you'll be shocked to learn this, but 2015's dating roster has been filled with assholes.

And I've figured out why: KARMA
(I read a quote today that said something about 'writing being therapeutic and like a confessional' blah blah blah, or some shit like that), and since I'd burst into flames in a church, I've decided to share a lie that I believe has lead me to a dating life of pure and utter misery...

This haunts me.

I once lied in a lovely hand written piece of fan mail to Donnie Wahlberg when he was Hangin' Tough and I was waiting for my breasts to come in.
Ummmm, if that doesn't make you tingle in your panties, I don't know what possibly could.  

After being in attendance (in row 1 million) of the 1989 Hangin' Tough tour, at Maple Leaf Gardens (we literally could touch the roof), I was convinced that Donnie Wahlberg locked eyes with me and this is where my inner Sharon Stone was born.
I may or may not have lied in every letter that I wrote to him, by stating my name was Summer and I was a 17 year old  professional dancer from California....who may or may not have gone on tour with Michael Jackson.
Truth is, I was a chubby 8 year old, who just started dance classes at her cousin's dance studio, who lived off of Kraft Dinner and had a My Little Pony collection I would die for.

So where does Karma come in you ask?

What if he spent the rest of his career, (even now on the set of Blue Bloods), thinking about me? That beautiful 17 year old gal from Cali that just got away? Stranger things have happened, amiright?
I mean c'mon people....

Look, Richard Gere fell in love with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and she was a hooker for christsake. A HOOKER!

Patrick Swayze was literally INSIDE Whoopi Goldberg's body and danced with Demi Moore, in the movie Ghost. "Ditto. Sam??? Sam?" Ugh. That movie gets me every time. It also gives me a lot of false hope that one day a middle aged black woman will be able to channel me so I can speak to my loved ones.

Oh wait,  AND....Noah wrote Allie 365 letters for an entire year in the Notebook, and that bitch never responded. Yeah, I know it wasn't her fault she never got them, but he never gave up...despite having meaningless, casual sex with this widowed neighbour and becoming a hairy alcoholic carpenter while waiting for her.
He still spoke to her when he thought she had gotten his letters and blatantly ignored them for what must have felt like a god damn eternity.... I'm still waiting for a date to return a text I sent him in October....

So, really. Is it THAT far fetched that my dating misery is a result of my tom foolery and games of the heart when I was a little girl?

I think I'm on to something here....

That's enough misery for now...Night, night.


Actually, come to think of it, not only did I lie in my fan mail to Donnie Wahlberg, I also was an outright bitch in a letter to Joey Lawrence after Blossom was cancelled.