Cocktails and Smashed Dreams

On Valentine's Day, I woke up and wrote a list of couples I'd like to see die in the world's most deadliest shark attack. Wrong? Some, may say yes. But I urge you to ask a single gal whose only hope of penetration is the Q-tip she puts in her ear, her answer may differ. 

OBVIOUSLY if I'm miserable, I'm bringing my friends down with me, so I invited some single bitches to hang in my crib on Valentine's Eve.

It ended up being just 3 of us, as most of my friends were super swamped with eating penis sandwiches with their boyfriends or husbands. Now, being the proper host that I am, I offered to cook dinner for my girlfriends. (Cooking for me, means boiling water and putting noodles in it). But when I do cook for people once every 478 days, I become secretly very overwhelmed. Every bite my guests take, I watch their faces to see if I can catch any "I'd rather be eating a shit popsicle" looks being exchanged. However, I quickly get over this quickly, since I typically ingest no less than a litre of wine during dinner. Feeling dead inside by 8pm just makes everything easier, no?

As you can only imagine, a copious amount of cocktails and dreams were consumed that evening, so waking up on Friday was a real fucking treat. I was suspiciously covered in garlic butter, had a fork in my bed which was dangerously located by my vagina, and had precisely 20 minutes before my paradise rocket was picking me up. We all know how much I loathe commuting to work, but that loathing is greatly intensified when my insides are rotting and I'm surrounded by dickheads.

In between loathing my commute and hoping my bus gets hijacked, I've also taken up a new passion for hating elevator small talk. (It's gotta be this permanent case of PMS which I've been experiencing for the past 18 years).

On Friday, I was convinced by the time I reached the elevator at my office, I would have travelled toward the white light and this whole elevator small talk thing could be avoided. Fat chance. 

Douchebag # 1. "Bob, did you see that RFP report? It should have been done on the BDW with HPR but Sharon didn't know the PTW code. We should rework it to the GVF and have the AVP look at it. 

Douchebag # 2. "Oh it looks like it's gonna rain today. Glad I brought my umbrella. Some crazy weather we're having." 

Douchebag # 3. (Obnoxiously laughing on cell phone) "HAHAHAHAHAAHAH. She deserved it. OMG. Did you see what she wrote on Facebook? I mean, come on. Her status goes from engaged to single in like 3 days. Like, seriously." 

Me (In my head) EVERYONE STAY CALM. THERE IS A BOMB ON THE ELEVATOR. IT IS ACTIVATED BY USELESS CHIT CHAT. PLEASE, SHUT THE FUCK UP. 

I miraculously survived Friday at work and had every intention of coming home and making my bed my bitch, but I was easily lured into going to a local bar, which is literally 2 seconds from my place. This bar is a magical bar where I get the urge to drink vodka coolers and go home with strangers. Vodka coolers not only burn the top layer of my tongue off, as it turns out, they also turn me into an olympic-ly skilled, badass dart player. BUT the best part of this story is my opponent was a Mexican little person who fell deeply in love with me. At one magical point in the evening, I leaned down (way down), and he whispered:

*Please read in latin accent. 

"I'm gunna gee chu my pone number and chu call me. Somtine, maybe chu could make lub to me." 

"Oh ya, like totally. Ya, I'm always up for making love. Totally." 

It was at that point the lights in the bar came on and I realized making a love pact with a man that could fit in my purse, wasn't one of my better ideas. So what's a gal to do? What any respectable gal would do: Go next door to Popeye's Chicken. OBVIOUSLY. Ugh. Can you hear my cellulite growing? I can. By the time I came out, my friend had left and the thought of walking the entire 40 seconds to my place was so devastating, that I hailed a cab. I knew if my cabbie asked me my address he'd tell me I'm a lazy fuck and kick me out, so in my drunken state I got in and just said, "Drive." 

Since I'm not Al Pacino, I can't pull off demands like this, so of course he didn't drive. He turned right around and asked, "Where are you going?" I gave him my address and he said, "No. Are you kidding me? You live RIGHT there." Then me and my fearless vodka loving mouth responded:

"Listen asshole, I've got hot chicken in my purse. HOT CHICKEN. On top of this I only have one good leg and see those men on the corner, they just tried to abduct me." 

While I'm saying all of this I'm in shock of what's coming out of my mouth, but secretly super impressed with my Oscar-worthy delivery of this not so life threatening situation I just created. I think I was still holding on to the anger of missing Dateline that night, so I thought my uber dramatic story would be like paying homage to my favourite show. 

Saturday morning, I woke up with a bad attitude and chicken in my hair. Shocking, I know. I sat up in bed, and convinced myself for 10 minutes that my apartment must have been ransacked by terrorists. There was no way, 2 girls could make that much of a mess. I thought about calling the police but I wasn't sure if they would have to go through my drawers, and the thought of a hot cop discovering my drawer full of dicks and granny panties was just too emotionally draining. 

I actually didn't move out of bed until 6pm when my girlfriend and I went to the movies. Only to be surrounded by a family of heavy nasal breathers. Awesome. I couldn't even enjoy my popcorn as I started obsessing over what could possibly cause an entire family to breath so God damn heavily. It was vile.  

I eventually shoved my 80 dollar bag of popcorn in my purse and headed home to soak my face in glycolic acid. It's a potent wrinkle reducer that I'm convinced will one day make me look like this:

But whatever. For now, it's working. 

While burning the first layer of my face off, I had the pleasure of watching the 11 o'clock news on the channel from Buffalo. Ever watched the Buffalo news? Basically, I think there may be 6 people that currently I've in Buffalo as everyone seems to have been murdered, died in a 5 alarm blaze or are at Lockport Gambino Ford buying a used car. Depressing. 

Speaking of depressing, I decided to join society on Sunday and went low carb grocery shopping. This is what happens when you buy low carb groceries on your period: 

Low carb shopping on your period is not recommended. By the time I got to the bread aisle, I convinced myself that I would only eat open faced sandwiches on 1 slice of bread once a week, and I'd keep it in the freezer. Ha. I paced in front of the bakery like Ryan Gosling was baking all the bread for Christ sakes. I was an animal. BUT I didn't feel like such an animal when I stopped to take a small break from carrying my grocery bags (18 loaves of bread are fucking heavy), and I watched a lady eat 6 giant unwashed carrots right out of her grocery bag. Who does that? I actually locked eyes with her and shamelessly stared right at her. So feeling a little less crazy, my bread and I decided to go pant shopping. IDIOT. I personally think that lighting in change rooms should be rendered illegal. Or at least have a disclaimer on the mirror which reads:

'YES, YES YOU CAN GROW CELLULITE THERE.' 

Actually, now that I think of it, I haven't been bathing suit shopping since the late 90's for that exact reason. If my memory serves me correctly, I think the last bathing suit I bought was during the summer of '97 when I was only ingesting 2 Crystal Lights a day and feeling fab. Since then, I've just been "accidentally" falling in bodies of water fully clothed in sweaters and pants. 

Well, I somehow convinced myself that writing about my very mundane weekend is material I should share with the world. I wish that I could report that my flight from Bora Bora with Ben Affleck was so super delayed and they ran out of my favourite champagne. But sadly, that's it. There you have it folks. Simple, simple me. Trying to make it in the world without a straight jacket.