Tuesday, December 14, 2010

My Issues with Harvard Football, Part I


SO my meeting with my potential publisher/editor that was originally schedule for tomorrow got POSTPONED until January 6th because dude's mother is all not well and shit. So I can't even be upset, family stuff comes first. But now I'm mad because I don't get to wear my killer "I'm sexy yet smart and sophisticated and you'd never know I banged a shit fuck load of dudes by looking at me" outfit until then. GOD DAMN IT.

Anyway, while I know both my literary agent and said potential publisher might not be thrilled, I have a lot of stories that are part of the book that will start to leak here on the blog for the next four weeks....my goal is to just keep them not super detailed so it leaves you fuckers a little bit intrigued so you actually by the book to find out the nitty gritty graphic bits of the stories. So that's the compromise - I give you the good shit (or what I consider the good shit, you judgmental fuckers might hate it) and you buy the book to get the REAL good shit. Deal? Awesome. I don't care if you said no. Awesome.

This is a recent story that popped into my head and I thought it would make a funny post. Considering I'm such an internet stalker myself (Nick Schommer, thanks for not calling the cops dude, I still wanna meet up), I value this story as the stalker becoming the stalked. This story will also be in multiple parts so you fuckers need to keep reading. Muwahaha, I'm tricky. Fuck, I'm so tired. Also, sidenote, it's snowing on Long Island. I get to stay home tomorrow and watch a Harry Potter marathon. Okay, totally rambling. ANYWAY...

So as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was once tricked into the mind numbing, psychotically bullshit experience of online dating via Match.com. And by once, I mean probably like four times. Anyway, I meet this dude on there who is like 6'4", and has two pictures where he looks pretty decent. He had formally played football at Harvard, and was drafted and then released or something. He was like, 30. So I decide to give it a shot. If nothing else, dude sounds educated, he looks remotely not like a mutant, and he's got former athlete things going on so it's like a happy medium between the real world and the jersey chasing world. Fucking awesome.

Dude and I go out, and I get tanked. He kind of has a case of the gay face a bit, but he's not bad looking. He dresses super well. I take his ass to my favorite bar in the East Village and begin drinking Brooklyn Lager like it's water. WATER. I think I took some tequila shots, then we went to brother jimmy's and I was drinking Bud Lights or PBR's, I don't remember, and he's all like holding my hand and touching my waste and I'm all like "hey, that dude by the skeeball machine is kind of hot, hold up Match.com date, I'll be back in five."

Basically, I just wasn't into him. I was still all 10th grade devastated over my lost soccer boy from the summer, and this dude just didn't do it for me. Which was sad because I think he'd probably be a good boyfriend and all that shit, but obviously I'm shallow and retarded and if I can't see myself banging you, and if I don't want to picture it while I'm having friendly times with my vibrator (it's purple I got that bitch on sale), I can't date you. I just can't. I can't go from banging really really hot dudes to like, having to close my eyes through the whole of sex. I don't care how much money you make, how nice you are, or how many fucking vacays you want to take me on. I like sex and I like not cringing and being skeeved BY sex. And I just wasn't getting that "i want to go get naked on the street corner with you and I don't care who sees" feeling from this dude.

So anyway, this dude then walks me to Penn Station, and he sits and waits for my train with me, and is like, holding me, and I'm not protesting because I'm totally shitfaced and housing Taco Bell (baha gordita with beef and a double cheesy beefy burrito, 3am breakfast of drunk champions), and I think he showed me a tattoo on his chest and I was just so over it. Done. Like, just no interest whatsoever, contemplating ingenious drunk ways to get some athlete I used to bang to want to bang me again, going through my BBM list wondering who I can hit up because I'm kind of horny but I smell like Taco Bell and I am trying to figure out who wouldn't really care about that little bit of info. And then of course my train comes and I make out with him before I leave, but it wasn't really about him. I was so fucking shitfaced I might have made passionate love to the fucking supporting beam in between tracks 18 and 19. Seriously, this wasn't like an accomplishment on his end, it was like rated PG date rape. We've all been there. You make out with the dude a.) because you're falling and his lips and sucking gestures are basically preventing you from face planting and b.) you are so drunk that you may or may not have stopped breathing so this is involuntary CPR. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, you selfish sluts.

So I go home, dude texts me the next day. And we try to make plans but just can't pull it off slash I just don't give a shit enough to try to get together again. I end up going away with my friend Chris to LA, I fuck the puppet master, I'm all into other dudes, and Harvard Dude is STILL texting me. So finally, I decide I have a decent bone SOMEWHERE in my body....I need to step up and address this shit because at this point, I think dude is picking out floral patterns for our wedding ceremony.

The series of e-mails and texts that conspired over the next seven months, make me believe seriously in karma. Because I swear to fuck, this situation was me getting back ten fold what I had done to stalk certain athletes via Facebook. Like, ever seen the movie Fear with Reese Witherspoon and Mark Wahlberg? It was kind of like that.

To be continued...

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