Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Mike Curse

The time has come for me to elaborate on the cruel joke the universe is eternally playing on me. The Mike Curse. It started out as a series of coincidences and quickly devolved into madness. Each dude gets his own color to help with the distinguishing; you’re welcome. Let’s just dive right in.

When I was 16, I started dating my first serious boyfriend. His name is Michael. I referred to him as ‘Semen’ in past posts. I never called him Mike in the 4 years we dated. Always Michael.
Fun facts about the first Michael:
  • He hates seafood.
  • He’s in the military.
  • His only other job was stocking dairy at Publix.
  • His middle name is James.

The first guy who asked me out after the Semen and I broke up:
  • His name was Michael
  • He hated seafood
  • He was a retired Navy guy
  • His middle name was James

What the fuck, right? Now maybe you’re thinking this was a one time thing; a funny coincidence. You would be wrong (I wish you’d stop doing that).

After the Semen:
  • There was Dusk (not Michael; doing good right?). He was also in the Navy.
  • There was a freezing cold night of snuggling in my trailer (what’s got 2 thumbs and keeps shit classy? This bitch) with a Mike I worked with at Subway.
  • There was a one date thing with a guy named James who was in the National Guard (military men? Yes please!).
  • Then there was Old Mike. He’s a retired Army guy. His middle name is Jay…Making him Michael J number 3 for those of you keeping track.
  • There was a very drunk evening with a guy who’s middle name was Michael*
  • Then there was a glorious break with the advent of Kent. He appeared to be completely removed from every aspect of the curse; then I learned that his specific job at Publix was stocking dairy.
  • The weird motherfucker of ‘Breakfast Date’ fame? Also named Mike.
  • The guy I met up with later that day? Yep, Mike.

Someone’s just fucking with me at this point, right?? I mean, is it even possible for all these coincidences to happen to one person? Now, it used to be a joke in my family that I couldn’t bring home anyone named Chris (I have an Uncle Chris, a cousin Chris, & a ‘married to my aunt’ Chris) or a Nick (I have 2 cousins named Nick). While I have had my run-ins with Chris’ and Nicks (2 Chris’ and a Nick) none of them have stuck like this ‘Mike’ bullshit. I’m officially tied with the Chris thing just by myself! Everyone has replaced the Chris jokes with the “haha Brianna is dating ANOTHER dude named Mike” jokes; I’ve single-handedly changed a family joke, this is not a proud moment.

My kingdom for a cool dude not named Mike!

*This is only remarkable because on that night there were 3 chicks and 3 dudes, destined to pair off, and I wound up with the one guy in the group with Michael in his name. What the actual fuck?!

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Breakfast Date

OK, I already posted today. But I just realized I’ve been in my bed for 12 hours straight. Not only does this need to be celebrated, but I also need to feel like I’m accomplishing more than just extreme (awesome) slacking. In my (very weak) defense, I was supposed to have a date tonight (that’s right, people actually want to spend time and money on me), but he had to reschedule…I am, not so secretly, ecstatic. So you get a bonus post and I get to feel less disgusting. Let’s talk about this date I went on yesterday morning. Now, I’m not explicitly against breakfast dates. Usually I prefer them to come after a sexual encounter as a defense against awkward exit strategies, but I digress.

Some back story: the security guard at my hotel has a pretty public crush on me. He asked me out to dinner and I figured there was no harm in hanging out with the guy (except that his name is Mike. Har har, universe). He had to reschedule the dinner and he decided we should get breakfast Tuesday morning after we both worked overnight on Monday.

Now, I appreciate the fact that this guy is so into me he wanted to go out ASAP, but seriously, me in the morning is not pretty; if I’ve been up all night, I’m downright irritating. I used to work 3pm-7am every weekend and my mom can vouch that I tend to ramble incessantly until I finally crash out. So, these are the conditions we’re working with when we get to the IHOP yesterday morning.

Everything is OK. We sit down. Do the whole ordering thing. Then…we’re just sitting there. It’s like he spent so much time working up to just ASKING me to go out with him that he hadn’t gotten to how the actual event would go along. So, he’s not speaking and I’ve got words ready to burst forth in a never ending stream of nonsensical, unrelated verbiage. I had, at this point, been awake for 17 hours; 8 of which, I had been working. I let ‘er rip. I don’t know what part of my brain thought “Hilarious Sexcapades” was the correct topic choice for my first extended conversation with someone who wants to get in my pants, but there it was. When I stopped and looked at him expectantly, all he had was “wow” so I just kept going. Finally, I looked at him and told him he needed to contribute a funny or embarrassing sex story. He was a good sport about it and shared an anecdote in which he got caught having sex in a Taco Bell bathroom with an employee while she was on break. Not bad, right? This is where he decided to become a conversation terrorist:

            Me (enthused with his actual contribution): “That’s pretty trashy, huh?”

            Him: *laughs* (good sign, right??) “It was actually with the girl I wound up getting pregnant with my son that died.”

            Me (searching frantically for an escape route): Uhm………..yeah, I can’t come back from that *awkward laugh* it’s on you now man.

            Him: Why can’t you come back from that? I’m over it by now. I’ve had my mom die and my little sister die too, so stuff about death doesn’t bother me anymore.
            Me: Well, I was talking about funny sex stories and you bombed me with super sad shit. I can’t follow that.

            Him (pointing at tattoos): I got this one for my son, this one for my sister, and this one (brace yourself, this isn’t going where you think it is) when I lost my testicle.

            Me: Uhm, wow. How did that happen?

            Him: Oh when I was in the army I fell down the stairs in full gear and landed on top of my weapon and my testicle popped.

I couldn’t even hold it together, y’all. I just laughed. It was mean, yes. I apologized for laughing, while laughing, but there was no stopping it. I laughed so hard I cried, like other people probably thought he was dumping due to the amount of tears. This man fell down the stairs and popped his testicle…I didn’t even know testicles could pop! Then I had to ride 45 minutes out of town with him to give him a ride home (how come everyone who is attracted to me is without a vehicle??) and it was awkward as hell. I’m slap happy with sleep deprivation and trapped in a car with a terrorist.

That is the story of my breakfast date; I think they should stay in their place: hung over mornings with people you didn’t plan to see naked.

BUT my pimp hand is strong so when I dropped him off I continued on to Jacksonville and met up with a guy I’ve been trying to make plans with for a while. What’s his name? Oh, I think you know. Mike, obviously. That meeting wasn’t as eventful.

I’ll regale you with the saga of The Mike Curse soon, I promise.

Shit Gets Messy

My Facebook feed has become super trashy and I’m super excited about it. Now, usually I’m not down for schadenfreude, but this is an exception in the interest of public service.

The story is my old manager at Subway (I’m hella classy), who is a notorious, womanizing, jackass actually became a ‘one woman man’ and acquired a girlfriend. She appeared to be perfect for him. She was kinda sleazy, hot, drunk all the time, DTF, and into the marijuana. JUST LIKE HIM. So, I was actually enthused for him in the situation and watched it unfold via status updates and pictures.

Well, from what I can glean through my limited contact, she cheated on him. Which, let’s be honest, we all saw coming just from my description up there ^^ OK, I’m personally surprised that it wasn’t him. So, he’s decided to heal his heart by posting pictures that should serve as a warning to everyone everywhere not to have your picture taken in compromising positions ESPECIALLY by someone you’re in a relationship with, because the day you decide to break up with them, or make a mistake, they will no longer give a shit about you.

I have, thus far, seen: a picture of her naked with her best friend, a picture of them having sex ‘doggy style’ from his POV, and just today! A picture of her s-ing his d. No joke people. Now, he covered his d with a pic of a hot dog so as not to violate TOS, but it is obviously her, and she is obviously fellating (<spell check says that’s not a word. Psh.) him. Keep the cameras out of the bedroom/living room/kitchen/car. Nothing good can come of that (giggity). So, that is my PSA for the…I don’t know, until I feel the need to post another one.

Now, on to some shit I actually wanted to say before I got on Facebook and saw that foolishness.

I sometimes wish I had gone a more anonymous direction when I started this blog up. I know that not every single person (all 4 of you) who reads this knows me personally, but I’ve linked to this on my Facebook, my e-mail I’ve had since 7th grade is what I used to sign up, and my mom is my most consistent (and frequent) reader.

Now, I would never wish that my mom didn’t read this. She’s the one who said I should start one because she believes in me and what I’ve got to say (also, she was probably pretty tired of my calling and bitching for an hour everyday). But something of significance has got me kind of down today and I can’t really elaborate on it, no matter how cathartic it might be. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk people who know me reading about the stuff I actually do (and who I actually do it with). I don’t think I’m that comfortable yet.

Suffice to say, a boy I was beginning to like has cut me off at the pass. It doesn’t feel good, but it actually uncomplicated my life quite a bit. I’m focusing on that aspect for now. (The sad part is that just through this tiny paragraph my mom can probably figure out exactly what I’m talking about)

I had some more snarky “Shit I Hate” and I actually had a bunch of material about lots of stuff for once, but I’m gonna call the game here for today. No worries, there are untold amounts of things I hate just pinging around in my brain (as well as a super awkward "breakfast date" I went on). As a teaser: Lovebugs. I hate those motherfuckers.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

This is Why They Shouldn't Make Me Work Overnight

I just walked into the bowels of the hotel, it was completely silent. Out of no where the damn ice machine drops the ice in and scares the fuckin’ bejeezus outta me! So, now I’m super aware of every noise and psyching myself out about all the scary shit that’s probably haunting the hell out of this hotel (I read A LOT of Stephen King and Jack Kilborne, those sick bastards). THANKS, FUCKER.

In (mostly) unrelated news, I logged on to MySpace tonight. It was horrifying. It made me feel old. The comments couldn’t even tell me a date, they just said things like ‘5 years ago’ holy shit snacks! When did 5 years of my life go by? For that matter, why the hell am I not still in high school? My brain is sobbing uncontrollably in a corner of my skull. I am most baffled by what my group of friends and I are actually doing as opposed to what we all thought we’d be doing/what I thought everyone would be doing. I look at the people I used go to the movies with (dropped off AND picked up by my parents in their minivan) and just wonder how we would up doing what we’re doing. It boggles my mind. I’ll include a table I made to illustrate it for myself at the end of this post so that you don’t have to hang around for it if you couldn’t care less.

In ‘unrelated to either of the above unrelated things’ news, I found something else I hate today. I know all I do is bitch on this blog, but I think it’s what makes me endearing; or at least lets you feel better about yourself. I was at Olive Garden with Killa, she was being subjected to my endless story (I wrote it out, y’all. It was 6 pages, she never had a chance) about my weekend (she was charged with helping me analyze it, obvs). So, we’re about half way through when they sit a couple at the next table over (reason #843562 why booths are superior). Nbd, right? Yeah, except they sat on the SAME side of the table, the side facing me. Why do people insist on doing this? You aren’t proving anything to me. I don’t think you’re more in love because you can’t bear to have even a table between you. Honestly, I’m creeped out, and so is everyone else, by the fact that now you’re both staring us down while shoving pasta in your pie hole. Also, it’s impossible to talk to someone when they’re sitting directly next to you and you’re trying to eat. I can’t even grasp the appeal. If anyone can justify it in a way that doesn’t make it sound inconvenient and unpleasant, they get a dollar. True story, I will mail you a dollar if you can make it sound like something I’d ever wanna do.

Here’s the table I made. E! THS style. No one will be amused by it unless they know me and my friends (hi, mom!) but I went through all the trouble of making it so now the internet just needs to shut up and TAKE IT. Names have been changed to protect me.

The Pretty One
My best friend. Eating too much Chinese food and falling asleep. Talking about shit we had no clue about. Writing fan fiction about upperclassmen. Being awesome.
My best friend. Living in NYC. Being amazing at singing. Not seeing me enough. Talking about shit we have vague knowledge of. Being awesome.
My boyfriend. Having a terrible haircut. Playing tuba. Stocking dairy. Keeping the peace between Eye Candy and I. Being awesome.
Submariner in the Navy. Having a better haircut. Kicking ass. Taking names. Getting drunk. Still close with me. Being awesome.
Inexplicably hanging with us. Being made, via doodles, into everything on earth. Getting in trouble in 10th grade Biology with me. Being awesome.
Got fat. Doesn’t talk to the gang anymore. No longer being awesome.
Fat Ass
Not actually fat. In guard with me. Inappropriately touching, and being touched by, me. Eating a shit ton and not gaining any weight. Being awesome.
Not actually fat. Lives in the same city as me. Almost a Chemist. Eating a shit ton and not gaining any weight. Dating an Asian. Being kinda awesome.
Eye Candy
Semen’s best friend. Alternately loving and hating my existence. Being pursued by multiple 18 year old women. Being alternately loved and hated by me. Being awesome, most of the time.
Semen’s best friend. My friend too now. Loving my existence. Having his existence loved by me. Living the dream. Being pursued by multiple 18 year old women. Being awesome, more of the time.
Being drum major. Overachieving. In guard with me. Spending too much time at Starbucks with me. Making cat noises excessively. Being awesome.
Lives with me. Still overachieving. Still making lots of cat noises. Not seeing me nearly enough. Being marginally less awesome.
Invisible Man
Writing a book. Getting in trouble in 10th grade Biology with me. Drawing Specs as random objects. Impossible to find when not at school. Playing tuba. Being awesome
Engaged. In the Navy. Still being impossible to find/get a hold of. Being awesome.
The Pretty One’s boyfriend. Making inappropriate comments in a Baptist school. Playing Gaston. Super hairy. Being sorta awesome.
Married. Still hairy. Don’t know anything else. Not awesome.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Things I Hate About Gainesville

I wanted to call this post "Tuesday Hangover," but I don't want any of the 3 people who have ever even seen my blog to get the wrong idea.

Today I thought I'd lay out a few grievances in case anyone is batshit crazy enough to be considering even visiting this place.

1. People here cannot drive. I come from a place with an insane amount of REALLY OLD people who make you want to gouge your eyes out when you see 'em cruisin' at about 8 mph with only their blue hair visible over the steering wheel. I learned to drive with all that foolishness, and I still think people here are WAY worse. I have pictures. Check out this parking job in the lot of my apartment building 

You will notice that I color coded the arrows like on a traffic light just in case you couldn't tell who was wrong here.
This was not early in the morning. This was three in the afternoon. Which means a sober person parked like this, got out of their car, looked at it and thought to themselves "yep, that's how that should be." Are you shitting me? Now you may be thinking this is an isolated incident. You'd be wrong (again). In the SAME apartment parking lot, I found this gem last night

Seriously? I don't even get it. It's like when all these bitches learned to drive, the people teaching them said "Those white lines are just a suggested way of doing things; you keep marching to your own drum, Kyle." Holy shit balls. 

2. Pedestrians here are complete assholes. Their brains are too busy crying over how much the Gators suck at football to figure out what this symbol means.

It means DON'T FUCKING WALK, ASSHOLE. They step right in front of your car without looking while talking on their phones. I hate them. One of these days, I'm going to hit one. And I'm not even going to feel bad. 

Essentially these 2 things boil down to the realization there is no safe mode of transportation here...and that, apparently, I'm 80;because I essentially said "kids these days! With the twitter and the music and the Dawson's River kids sleeping in each others' beds." (yes I took that last bit from 10 Things I Hate About You. Ten points if you recognized it.) 

There are more, but I don't want to be a negative Nancy ALL day. So I'll help you out and say you should go read Oh, Noa because that shit is fucking hilarious.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Saturday Hangover

After an intense run in with a box of wine (and Killa & Corn Fed) last night, I am not feeling up to any sort of intense blogging. So, I shall instead regale you with pictures of schtuff and perhaps some "Texts from Killa" because they're funny (that's just a working title for the segment, feel free to suggest better). Without further ado, phoning it in:

You know you look hot when even the shredder wants some of that
This is how we get spoken to at my job, nothing like being abused by guests and management
For you conspiracy theorists out there, John Lennon is alive and practicing optometry at the Jacksonville Wal-Mart
Recipe for a good night, what you can't see is Dirty Dancing on the TV. Spock glass not required, but it's fuckin' rad isn't it?

Now, because I think some shit is funny, you get to read about it (if you made it down here). Just texts from my friend Killa (that name is misleading) that have cracked me up and also made me shake my head knowing this is my life. (I'm into pictures today, get over it)

Shitty picture, but that is a power point detailing MacDonald vs. Starkburks for Killa's Entrepreneurship class

Apparently this teacher has some spelling/language issues
It says "...handle designed for a woman's grip" She sent me this picture of the back of a razor's packaging, with this commentary:

And that is why I love her and I feel like our souls are boning each other on a regular basis. Anyway, you're a trooper if you stuck around for all this shit. I'm trying to have less of a gap between posts, so sometimes the content might look like this. Whenever I find the pics of the condom left in the Gideons' bible in one of the rooms at my hotel, you'll get that one too. Now back to my box of wine...

Sunday, October 2, 2011

A Post About Baseball

I am, admittedly, a new sports fan. I used to like the teams my family likes by default, but I couldn’t be bothered to learn the game or to truly care about it. That is changing rapidly. The past few years have found me slowly being sucked into the fanatic world of sports team loyalty that I observed in my family. It started with hockey the year the Tampa Bay Lightning won the Stanley Cup; I remember my dad and me watching a live feed of the game online and jumping around like maniacs when they actually won. It progressed with baseball and actually going to some Rays games (I went to a game their inaugural season in 1998, back when they were still in purple and green; so do not even try to call me a band wagoner) and learning more about the players. It finally bled into football when I acquiesced to the fact that I was born to cheer for the Buffalo Bills no matter how terrible they might play. And now, I not only enjoy when my team wins, but I enjoy just watching the games. Indoctrination at its best, religious nuts should take a hint from my family. So, now, I actually have opinions about sports and leagues and teams! Here’s a big ‘un:
I hate the Yankees. As in, actually hate them. They are everything that is wrong with professional baseball (in the same way that the Patriots are everything that’s wrong with professional football, but that’s another post.) I can’t pinpoint the root of my issue with the team, but I can give a few reasons why they are awful (not at actually PLAYING baseball, obviously.)

1.       No names – The Yankees’ uniforms do not have the player’s name on them (I re-wrote that sentence 4 times trying to word it properly and I still don’t think I succeeded.) Maybe you’re thinking to yourself “Well, neither do the Red Sox or the SF Giants.” You would be correct, but the Red Sox and the Giants do have their names on their away game jerseys. The Spankees are the only team that thinks that they’re so goddamn important that everyone everywhere should know who they are and that pisses me off.
2.       Money – This is the real kicker for me. If you can bear with me for all these numbers (which I will attempt to put into some sort of chart) that would be great because I did some research for this one.

New York Yankees
Tampa Bay Rays
Team Salary
Highest Paid Player
A.Rod - $32,000,000
J. Damon - $5,250,000
‘Big Name’ Player
D. Jeter - $14,729,365
E. Longoria - $2,500,000
Highest Paid Pitcher
C. Sabathia – 24,285,714
J. Shields – 4,250,000

The irony of the fact that my team’s highest paid player used to be a Yankee is not lost on me, but I digress. I know that the argument can be made that the Yankees are better ball players therefore they deserve to make more, but seriously? What makes a good ball player? I’d say that not only does skill play a huge part, but I would argue that an actual love of the game would be something fans would like to see in their team’s players. Anyone will love anything for 32 million dollars. I’m not trying to say I know anything about A.Rod as a person, I’m just trying to make a point(although, now that I just spent 2 hours trying to compile baseball statistics and googling what the stats meant; I’m not 100% sure what that point was.)

All I’m saying is that no one needs to be paid $323,232.32 PER GAME; certainly not if (in one of the games I researched) that person is going to go to bat 4 times and strike out 3 times. That’s like me being paid $323,232.32 per day to tell guests “Sorry you’re toilet is overflowing, I could fix it, but I’m in the middle of an intense Solitaire game right now.” If someone is paying you $323,232.32 to do a job, you could at least do it right. I know, I know, they’ve won the World Series 800 times. I honestly don’t care. That’s not the point I’m making. The point is that the discrepancy in pay for these players is absurd…and that if someone is gonna make that much, it should be someone I like.

My apologies for rambling about sports. I know everyone likes a different team or a different sport (as evidenced by the fact that we had the Gators playing terrible football on the TV yesterday instead of the Game 2 of the ALDS; there is no justice in Gator Country) this is just my opinion and I assume if you’re reading this blog, you’re looking for my opinion, as stated way up there ^^

P.S. Yes I did just write a random post without referencing the fact that I haven’t posted in forever, but I went to Vegas for my parents’ 25th Anniversary. Sorry. It’s OK to be jealous.