Wednesday, September 14, 2011

And so began my current boycott of the SF Giants.



I love getting e-mails for you guys again. And I always find it SO fascinating that my Kim Kardashian/E! stories always get so many interests, hits and comments. I know you all secretly watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians too, you undercover losers, take pride!

Anyway, now that I'm back on the circuit, you guys have been sending in some e-mails again, which I'm grateful for, and while this wasn't one of my favorite questions, nor is it something I'm thrilled about writing about (nervous actually), I want to answer and since the opportunity is there, I will.

I got an e-mail from a girl named Andrea who asked what happened with DC guy, and whether he was an athlete. She said "I've literally read your whole blog from start to finish, and your whole personality seemed to change when you wrote the post about how hurt you were. What happened?"

I went back and read those posts that came in the days after I literally was on suicide watch, and she is right. I lost a little bit of my fuck it all attitude and replaced it with "how difficult is it for a 25 year old girl in a Yankees jersey to get a noose around here?" bullshit. Kind of scary.

I always pride myself on some minimal talents ("talents"). My stat rat sports knowledge is one. When you um...watch...what I was doing for the last three weeks....on October 20th....ahem... you'll witness how fucking scary my love of sports really is. Or at least I hope you will, because that was the best fucking part of the whole thing. My loyalty. I'm a good, good fucking friend. Or at least I try my absolute hardest to be. I know everyone says that, but you know 85% of the people that say that are fucking lying. There are some terribly shitty people who think they are great friends, when in reality their friends all hate them. That's not me. I don't have many friends... I mean, that makes me sound antisocial, fuck ha. I have friends, but not 400. It's why I didn't work in a sorority. I like having my friends that I can focus on, care about, learn about, be interested in, be there for. I like spending time on my friendships, and I've learned that being selective about the people you *REALLY* let into your life, allots you more time to be a better friend. I love being a good friend. And finally, I like to think in some weird, fucked up way, that my humor makes me stand out. I'm crude, I'm a bitch, I'm graphic, I'm inappropriate, I'm honest and I'm fucking shameless. I love laughing, especially when it's at myself because that makes whatever dumb fucking thing I did more tolerable. And this blog helped me share that and get it out there and make some random people laugh. For me, that as probably one of the best things about this whole sordid online affair. Showing off my best assets to the world. Because obviously my tits are not them. :)

So when the DC thing happened, it felt like someone killed that. And I lost one of the few things that ever made me feel special. It added insult to injury. Kid broke my heart and indirectly took away one of the few things in life I was good at, that I loved to do. (Mentally mother fucking him as I write this actually ha). Like, I just couldn't bring myself to laugh, or want to write about sports or being funny or fucking hot guys or even Nick Schommer. Nick fucking Schommer couldn't pull me out of this rut. That's how deep it was.

Yes, he was an athlete. Sort of. Eh, he was. He played baseball for the SF Giants for a bit, but hung 'em up when it was clear AAA was really all he was going to get. From what I read, he was good, and he had a good draft class, and he was "in" with the boys who make the Giants famous today. I remember seeing a pic of him, Timmy and Wilson and thinking "eh, alright, I'll take it" ha. The jersey chaser in me is always there, even when I'm trying to settle down.

I didn't know that about him when we first met. That came out later, when we realized we had mutual friends. So at least I knew if he ended up being a serial killer, my mother would be able to trace everything back to him, which is always important in this shit ha.

He wasn't drop dead gorgeous. He was just... handsome. And I have never dated a guy I thought that about. I always think the guys I date are hot. At least at the time. But he was attractive, and he had such a hot voice. And fuck, he was funny as shit. I am not one to bullshit you about humor being the most important trait in a guy. It's not, at least for me, and most girls who say that are fucking lying because they don't want to admit they are shallow bitches. It's good to have, but you want someone you can fuck and not want to vomit after, and to me, that initial attraction is the most important thing. But good fucking God, his humor came really close on that one.

He was the first uncircumcised (and hopefully last ha) penis I ever saw. Didn't quite know what to do with it, literally. Took some um, getting used to.

And in like two weeks, he just fell into place. Like, for three years I had this huge wall up where I really didn't expect anyone to fit in my life. I had actually fallen in love with the idea of being single and fucking around with all these guys and having a good time. I didn't think I would find someone I'd click with like the way I did with Alvin (obviously not his real name, but his real name is just as awkward and this psuedo make me laugh lol).

I was down in DC all the time. On the phone with him all the time. Texting him, all the time. Calling him when I got out of work. Up on Saturday nights on the phone for 8 hours. And when I was there, I'd wake up in the morning in his god awful, hideous, 1970's sleigh bed and be on his shoulder and just felt happy. It's all SO fucking cliche, I know, but I guess that's why so many people describe shit this way. It's just what it is.

There was an issue with sex that came up a few times, and it made me very self conscious. Looking back now, I don't know if it was me, or him, or what. But I was very, very thrown off by it and hurt. I don't want to go into detail about what it is for his sake, not mine. But take a few guesses and I'm sure eventually you'll get it.

Like most idiot girls, I thought he was it. I know when I know, and with him, I knew. Missing puzzle piece found, positive to the negative plugged in. I even cooked him fucking dinner. Do you know how big that is for me? I don't even fucking cook myself dinner. I made myself top ramen tonight. And I cooked him fucking dinner. I spent a shit ton of hours on a God damn bus just to spend time with him. To me, he was worth it. And when our kids had beautiful blue eyes, I'd think all the bullshit had been worth it just so they didn't have my big dull brown eyes.

And then he flaked. It was legitimately as though someone had flipped a switch. Night and day. I left on a Tuesday after Memorial Day, he had gone to work, I took a late bus. Left him a note that said "by the time you read this I will probably be somewhere on I-95 in Jersey. But know that wherever I am, I would so much rather be here with you".

He sent me a text when he got home from work saying "I just got a very good note on my bed :)". Shit was good. I was ready for shit to stay good. I deserved, after all the shit I've voluntarily put myself through and hurt myself with over the years, for shit to stay good.

And then he didn't call. I was moving, and busy, and I spaced a tiny bit. But I noticed he wasn't responding. Noticed he was distant. And then he just didn't call at all.

When I finally confronted him about it, four days later, the first four days I lived in NYC, mind you, when I should have been out getting wasted and fucking half of Wall Street to celebrate, not sitting in a bar with my friends wondering what in God's name I had done wrong, he balked. He said he was still interested, but that he had felt like everytime he had looked at his phone over the weekend, it was ringing.

Lie. Why? Because I was moving. I'd like to know how many times I could have called or text him in the three days I spent assembling IKEA furniture, and driving 8, 8 fucking times between NYC and Long Island to pack up my shit, then unpack. It was no more than I had called or text in the last month. In fact, probably less because I was so busy. And honestly, I'm totally one to admit when I am a crazy person. Like, I'm a girl, I have those moments when I block my number and call 27 times, or like, you know, stalk the chicks a guy adds on FB after me. I've been there, I don't deny it. I have a vagina, I have estrogen, I have amazing stalking skills, and when they are all used at the same time (maybe not the vagina), it can be deadly and typical. And if this were the reason, I'd be pumped because at least it would have made sense. But it didn't. I didn't pull a Swimfan on this dude, I swear it on my life, I was entirely normal and not the blonde chick in obsessed. Scouts fucking honor on that one kids.

Then he blamed the distance. Lie number two. He knew if there was anyone, anyone in this fucking world who could make distance work, it was me. With my new schedule, I could leave on Thursday morning and be in DC until Monday morning. My mom lives 20 minutes from her boyfriend on Long Island and doesn't even fucking see him that much. I could have gotten transferred to our restaurant down in DC. I could have. I would have. Hi, I fucking made Maryland Vancouver work. DC is 45 minutes by plane, 2 hours by train. Distance? Give me a fucking break.

I went total Pisces girl. I cried. I begged. I hate that I begged. I'm a fucking bitch, I wish I just went straight up mean bitch. I wish I made fun of him for shit or was just like "fuck you and your hooded penis." But I thought I could fix it, and he just didn't want me to.

I sent him a few e-mails in the following weeks. None got a response. There were some drunk one sin there too. No response. But he didn't block my e-mail. I only know that because when the east coast had our little "earthquake", I sent him an e-mail saying that I hoped he was okay as I knew where he worked was being evacuated. he responded with one line. "Ha, yeah, it was pretty crazy down here but I got a half day at work so that's nice!"

I've lost a lot of guys in my life, alright. My dad, for one. My first boyfriend who literally was, at the time, the absolute love of my life. Heath, my ex lacrosse player, who I just loved in the most genuine, honest way I have ever loved someone. Soccer hottie, arguably the best looking fucker I have ever banged in my life.

This was like losing all of them all over again at the same time. And I have, NO fucking idea why.

This wasn't a long situation. It wasn't particularly different or stand out. He isn't that hot, doesn't make that much money, and he had some gray hairs. And he drove a Honda. And he looked like a total fucking nerd from Office Space when he wore button up shirts and ties to work. He wasn't that special. But it was like, the whole world had shut off for me.

Seriously, I know you fuckers like, witnessed a tiny bit of my depression with those posts, but those were horribly muted because I was legit nervous if I told the total truth of what I was feeling, someone would be a good friend and call the fucking hospital to take me away in a straight jacket. I remember thinking "if I couldn't keep this guy and his issues interested, I'm fucked. I'm never going to get married and I am done looking for someone to love." It was a really, really shitty moment.

Like I said, that's the Pisces in me. When I'm sad, I'm suicidal. When I'm happy, I'm like, high on life. Unfortunately, this one blind sided me. You guys were right - he was a game changer for me and he ended up striking my ass out. And I was reeling.

Did I love him? Honestly? Yes. Batshit as it is, I did. And I kept saying in other posts "I could have loved him" because I didn't want to admit to you fuckers that a.) I have the ability to love things and b.) that I'm one of *those* girls. I didn't want you guys to lose sight of everything i have ever written about - about how I don't fall easily, about how I have only been in love twice, about how I'm very careful and insanely picky about who I love, and suddenly be like "Stef's a fucking liar and she probably falls for everyone she hooks up with". I don't. I didn't. But with this one, I did. It was just all the right movements in one guy and it fell into place and that was the result. Yes, I loved him. And yes, I would have absolutely been willing to take his god awful, stupid, mildly embarrassing, sound of a fucking name. I cared so much about him and he made me feel good for a while. I fucked myself for letting my guard down with him, and now I'm at a point where that guard is at color code red (in the homeland security color coded security threat thing). I made a mistake, but ya can't help who you fall for. No one ever loves a person who is good for them. And I am no exception to that rule. There'd be no fun in it, no thrill, no reason to keep trying.

I have, if you can't tell from the fact that I'm cracking mildly funny jokes instead of writing suicide notes, since recovered. Not completely. I still think about him probably on a daily basis. I still miss him so much when something cool happens to me, or I hear a funny joke, or I'm horny (he was super good at text sex, by the way). I still think about how gay I let myself be when I danced with him in his kitchen, or how fucking hard I laughed when we were drunk and he bear hugged me so I couldn't get to the bathroom and I came within like .8 seconds from peeing in my pants and we fell down in his hallway laughing like a couple of crackheads. And I miss him when I meet a new guy and I realize I'm still like, super guarded and not quite over him yet. But I still love to make sutpid jokes and talk about sex and I had to get back on that track, so here I am. And ironically, I got a lot of that groove back when I was in Alabama (hint hint hint) doing what I was doing the last couple weeks. I found myself again down there and realized how much I loved that part of me that was a no bullshit, didn't give a fuck, foul mouthed stat rat sex fiend quick witted bitch. So now I'm putting that shit back into motion here where people actually appreciate it.

And that's the story. Yes, he was in theory, another athlete. Yes, he was a guy I would typically go for. But he was different in the sense that shit wasn't why I went for him, for once. It was just a nice side perk that I felt like i had a lot in common with him and got a lot of what he had done in life, particularly because of my own experience with the minor league life.

If he called me tomorrow, would I answer? As much as I would like to be a tough vagina with self respect, yes, I would. Do I expect it to happen anymore? Nope. He's done, dusted, and he's probably fucking engaged to someone else, knowing my track record. I don't actually no. Blocked on Facebook, lost his number (and didn't have it memorized). He's off my radar of awareness, other than the random drunk e-mails I send him every now and then about how ugly he looked in boxer briefs (true story, we all know my opinion of boxer briefs). And I told him I loved him in a batshit letter I wrote him to get it off my chest a few weeks after the fact. No response to that which wasn't surprising, though I was happy I hadn't received a restraining order after that stunt ha. Sometimes i let my romanticism run away with me.

So that's it. That's where I was all summer. Recouping from a tragically broken heart. That's why I was such a cunty bitch to all of you, why I went MIA, why I wasn't funny. Why I sucked at life, basically. Because of a boy with a hooded penis, bright blue eyes, ugly underwear and a really great sense of humor. And because he ended up being just as big of a dick as he was an awesome guy, if not more so. And yeah, you guys deserved to know the story, as pathetic and lame as it makes me look. I mean, you guys read the puppet fucking story. I don't know which is worse, and after that, I don't think there is anything I could write to you guys that would make your opinion of me worse if that didn't already ha.

But on the flip side, there were a lot of good moments this summer that helped me move forward and say "fuck him". And since you guys tend to love candid photos, here are some decently funny ones from my summer. I have really, really good friends ha.

Party at my Hamptons house... yes, I have dimples in my ass, fuck you.


Yankees game with Jen, my first step to recovering 4 days after the shittiest phone call I've gotten in a while:


Brother Jimmy's... a place of solitude and familiarity and comfort.


Me running into my 8th grade boyfriend at the Drift Inn in the Hamptons and my best friend secretly grinding on him as I tried to not laugh.


You're never too old to shot gun a beer...




I am so fucking college sometimes it scares me.



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