Single And Not Quite Ready To Mingle

As the wretched Hallmark Holiday that is VD, I mean Valentines Day (but really, it is the herpes of the holiday world), approaches, I start getting asked by my friends, co-workers, the dude at Dunkin' Donuts who makes my morning crack infusion and just about every other fucker who knows I'm single, what I am doing for VD?

And I know you want to know the truth since you stopped by this little slice of the interwebs; I am going to tell you. It's pretty much the same thing I do every year.

NOT A GODDAMN THING.

I am not boycotting the herpes of holidays because I am not a fan of romance, love or any of that flowery shit that makes other women's ovaries tingle like me in a shoe store with a stolen credit card. Most would be surprised to find out that I, H-Bomb, am quite the romantic when I so choose to be. Cocoa Butter Butt Lotion? Check! Jodeci CD? Check! Cooking dinner in my skivvies when my person comes home? CHECK! I can pull out all the stops to show the chosen one why they are THE chosen one, if I so choose.

Besides the fact that I worked in the restaurant industry for many years, 5 of which were spent at the Cheesecock Factory (where there are no limits to people's foolery on this day), the reason that I am single and would rather eat a Pringle than go out on VD is that I have a wretched dating history and have been on some pretty fucking awful dates. Like the kind of dates that when I tell people I have been on, they are like, "No fucking way, that shit cannot be real?!" To which I gently and sweetly reply, "No, SERIOUSLY...a 38 Special concert (in 2006), 1 hour from my home in PA, in a blizzard and then the guy told me he doesn't drink after I was already trapped an hour from home." How fucked up is that, right? 

My most recent episode of dating douchery took place just a few weeks ago. Because fuck logic and reason, that's why I went out with this person...AGAIN. 

Smart H-Bomb knew this was a bad idea from the jump, but not-so-sharp H-Bomb said to herself, "Nahhhhhh girl, it can't be that bad." And it really wasn't THAT bad - like nothing that will get me on a Lifetime movie for choking a motherfucker out in public, but it was another re-inforcement of my impeding spinsterhood.

The guy is a relative of a very dear friend. He is younger than me. He has the biggest case of Peter Pan Syndrome EVER and I don't think he could grow up if I paid him a million dollars - you will see why this is a key factor later. There are a few more non-pluses, but overall the kid is sweet, likes me, and has been pursuing me for some time. The back story is that 6 months ago, I gave him the opportunity to date me and he said no to me. Can you believe this fucking fool? I guess shit really does happen.

So I picked my ego up off the floor, got back on my horsey and rode off into the sunset never to give it another thought. We hung out a few times after that, as friends, and one night he asked me for another shot at the title. I said no, gave him my litany of reasons, but this fucking kid was persistent and eventually wore me down. So we hung out a couple more times, and even went to a family function together (where he was texting most of the night), but I knew I was not feeling it anymore and needed to let him down gently. Yes, I have human feelings and fuck no, I don't want to talk about them.

The last hang sesh in question comes around and all week long this kid is texting and calling me, telling me he can't wait to hangout, blah blah blah and to take me out. Remember that last part...it will be useful in a few minutes. What I am about to say may come as shock to the delicate minds of some, but I am what some might call, "a stickler" for punctuality. I know it, he knows it, and yet he is still almost a half hour late to our date. But, the bar has scotch and it is happy hour, so I work on getting happy like a motherfucker. 

When he gets there, he sits next to me and we make a few minutes of small talk and he says to me, "I have some bad news about tonight," to which I reply, "That's why I drove myself." I am expecting him to say something like his friends are going to meet up with him or some other such bullshit, but no, this dude lays on me this gem: "I have enough money to cover myself, but not enough to pay for you, too."

WAIT A HOT FUCKING MINUTE, SON. 

You told me you wanted to take ME out and now you can't PAY for ME? Did I miss the memo where I was being Punk'd? 

Before anyone hands me a golden shovel and a key to the Playboy Mansion, let me give the facts. Every time, and I mean E-V-E-R-Y-T-I-M-E I have hung out with this kid, his fund situation has been slim to none. I have zero problem paying for my own shit...never have, never will. My personal rule is pretty simple - if I don't have money to go out, I don't go out. Fortunately, I happen to make decent skrilla and keep my overhead to a minimum, so covering my own bill during happy hour ain't no thang. Especially since my ass likes to drink scotch...and LOTS of it. 

We continue on our busted double-dutch date and chit chat about the weather and fishing...no seriously, fishing. I, for real, no bullshit, begin to not feel so hot (and I had been sick a few days prior) so I tell him I think it's time for me to make tracks and we get our checks.

I get my check, pull out my card and hand that shit over. He starts fumbling in his wallet and grabs some cash and looks at me and says, "Can I borrow some money, I don't have enough to cover my check."

Ain't this a goddamn bitch?!?! 

Surprise, motherfucking surprise. I grab his cash, throw his check at the bartender and tell them to take care of both with my card - the least I can get out of this is a couple of extra SkyMiles. But for real, I can't even get mad at the kid for doing his thing, because I got played for an ATM on a whole mess of occasions and still kept coming back. Well played, young sir, well played. 

Since I am convinced that someone has put Crisco on the slip-n-slide into spinster-hood that is my dating life, I will quite happily sit out this VD, while so many others get duped for the eleven-teenth time, under the guise of romance. But if you make someone cover you, after you tell them you don't have enough money to pay for  them and yourself, don't be hating on them when all they give you is an ass-out hug good night! Happy VD, suckers!

VD ain't shit but deception and tricks. Well...to some of us, anyway.

I'm out. 

Cat Woman - I Can't Get Enough...

Dear Cat Woman,

They say blow jobs are EVERYTHING. That's your secret, huh? Don't say it isn't because I know it really is. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I will cum on your face. Wait, what?

You texted me last night and wanted me to come over...AGAIN. You were blunt and honest. You didn't want to go out to dinner. All you wanted was to blow me. Not even have sex...just suck thy wang like it was the last piece of fried chicken on earth. You wanted all of my eleven herbs and spices and special sauces.

I was tempted, I'm not going to lie. The shenanigans you pulled on our last two encounters I can't knock you for. Reason being - 1) I was drunk and 2) I put myself in that position. Well played, Roseanne Barr. Well played. Side note, I am voting for Roseanne Barr for president. The country needs more fat, crazy women in office. That will show the world that our "give-a-fuck" meter is broken, so don't even try us. (She is legit on the ballot for President - look that shit up)

While I was watching Hoarders on my DVR last night, praying that my boy J-Wunder didn't get axed by that crazy bitch from yesterday's advice column, I stared at your text and asked myself, "Do you really want to go? Do you really want to put yourself in that situation...AGAIN?"

Then I thought, "J-Wunder and The RINGER are going to give you hell. They said it themselves...bro, if you fuck with this broad again, we will be sure to do a collab on blasting your ass on the blog." Hey dipshits, have you not noticed I've been blasting myself on the blog? Fucking jerks. Plus, I am pretty sure I got a text from J when he was getting killed, but like I said, Hoarders was on and for some reason all that crazy was giving me major wood.

25 minutes, while drinking a vodka/soda, eating a bag of Doritos and watching Hoarders, I stared at that text and started to write - "Come over and play baby..." But I couldn't finish it.

I drank more. I ate more. I debated. Over and over and over again. God, you give amazing blow jobs. That's the only quality you have. I don't get it. You are a retarded version of Rosie O'Donnell, smell like cat shit but have completely Jedi-Mind fucked me. All because your mouth is amazing. So warm. So soft. So gentle. You are the epitome of a cruel joke. Face like a Mack truck, mouth like soft-serve ice cream.

Then it happened. I got drunk. Horny drunk. I texted you back with the only response I could think of...

"Hey chubbs, I'll be there in a jiffy. 8======D (get ready for the fury)"

I arrived at your house only to be greeted by that awful smell of dirty cats, potpourri, ham, what resembled gouda cheese and cat dookie. Like last time, I wanted to throw up. You wasted no time and went straight for my pants until I stopped you. You looked confused...more so, hungry. I was not going to let you chomp on my wang like an Auntie Annie's pretzel, so I made you a sandwich. Like three of them. Who the fuck still has pimento loaf? I thought that shit was discontinued, but there it was in your fridge, next to what I could only hope was mayonnaise. Side note: you eat some really unhealthy and awful shit. Just sayin'.

After I fed you dinners, you looked at me with eyes that burned with desire and hopefully not chlamydia, then walked me over to your plastic covered couch (and don't think I didn't notice that some of it was yellow, and smelled like cat-death) and sat me down. I thought I sat on a cat turd, but it was only a cat toy. And when I threw it on the ground, what could have only been 10 or 12 cats, came out and started fighting over it like it was the last bone in a dog fighting kennel.

You looked at me with those fiery eyes, like you wanted to kiss. I was wasted (yes, I am going to keep repeating that I was wasted because it makes me feel like I had a reason for even giving you the time of day) so I did what any drunk man would do...I dropped trow and pulled my cock out like I was in a stand-off gun fight. Then it happened...

I fell asleep on your couch only to wake up and find you sucking my dong with peanut butter and whipped cream spread across my shaft and balls. To make it even worse but yet amazing, "French Fry" was trying to get in on the action but you had none of it. You hissed at her like two cats in a cat fight. Ok, you actually roared and sounded like an overweight mountain lion...if one was ever to exist.

Again, you had me at the blow job.

You handed me a towel, I cleaned up and headed for the door. That's when you shocked me with those words as I was leaving...

"I want to be with you baby...I don't want this only to be about blow jobs. So will you???"

I looked at you as I sobered up by the madness you were speaking. After you had drained my body with almost a weeks worth of man juice I only had one response:

"Bitch, YOU CRAZY?! Fuck that, I'm out!"

Sure I loved your blow jobs and sure you had me addicted but let's be honest...did you really think I was going to date you?

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!

By the way...I went to Verizon today and changed my number. I'm also moving out of my place because my lease is up. Kidding, I lost my job and can't afford rent. I'm moving in with The RINGER.

It was fun while it lasted. I'll never forget you, those silly fucking cats, your humongous body rolls and that amazing mouth. Don't let any man tell you different Lunch Box...EVER.

XOXO,

Anonymous

The Most Disastrous Post-Date Text Convo in HISTORY