The Ninja

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"The question is what's going in Mr. Peterson? A beer please, Woody."

Location: Fast Eddies... AHHHH....

Time: 10:30 PM

I was visiting my friend who was guest bartending at Fast Eddies when a man approached me. He was medium height, solidly built Asian man with a ponytail. I became intrigued by this only because I haven't seen that since the Karate Kid movies. My pension for awkward men and awkward scenarios only made this encounter more enticing.

Ponytail: Can I play the game behind you?

He was pointing to the fake computer that was on the bar that I was sitting in front of. People come out to bars now, not to socialize, but to sit in a dark corner, and play texas hold 'em. They also have beer pong on there, which makes me debate... why not just go home, play the real thing, and get drunk the old fashioned way? Why come to a bar to play a drinking game by yourself, on a computer, and pay ten times more for beer?

Ponytail: I think you can just move it to the side, and I can stand to the side of you. You don't even have to give me your seat.

I was trying to be overly cordial, and I began begging him to take my chair. I was hopping in and out of my bar stool. He refused to make me move, and so I began to twist the computer over. He took his place to the side of me, and as I was looking at him I did not notice the computer rotate into my full beer, and onto my crotch.

This was my second beer. I had been there less than a half hour. And I was wearing light colored jeans.

When it looks like you peed your pants, I think that just screams going home solo.

The Pretender

"What's the story Norm?"

"Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer."

Women all around the country are pretending. For some reason or another, we have all decided that everything we have ever known about ourselves, and everything we’ve always believed in, should be tossed into a bonfire, until our fragments of personality have been singed beyond recognition. As I watch my own livelihood go up in smoke, and many of my friends, I think what is the purpose for this? Why such great action with the possibility of no reaction?

The reason is simple: Men. We want them. Sometimes, we want them so badly, that we are willing to change ourselves completely, and become the ideal version of who we are. But no, that can’t be true.

My ideal does not pretend to enjoy things that I normally would abhor doing. My ideal enjoys writing and reading, and watching television, and sometimes spending obscene amounts of money on something I most likely will never wear.

Am I describing a stereotype? No, I am describing me. The woman every man hates. The aberrations are false; just like you like beer and sports, most of the time we like our own version of shallow shit.

I suppose it should be simple. We mold to the person we are dating. We want to understand their knowledge, and to understand it we must unearth it for ourselves. But to the degree that I generally run into, it seems to be abnormally high, and the fact is we can only fake it for so long. The things women normally only pretend to care about, luckily have a positive reaction. It creates instant gratification with men, and often, becomes something two people can bond over. The problem is, is it worth bonding over something superficial when it comes to matters of the heart?

Women today have gone too far. We are becoming submissive, and we can’t help ourselves. It’s not about important things anymore. It’s about believing that seeming overly promiscuous and actually, enjoying playing Madden will win over our guy in mind.

Do they win out in the end? Can we stop ourselves before it’s too late? The clock is ticking to just be yourself before we all become fem-bots of men’s idyllic reality.

Example #1: "Johnny Damon is so hot"

Women today love sports. It seems like you see women at sporting games much more often than ever before. My step-dad brought up a point that it’s a great place to meet men. “Men love seeing women at hockey games, the men are drunk, and just go up, chat them up about Ovechkin, and you’re in.”

But I know nothing about Ovechkin. I should pretend? Yes, he says, I should. The reason for this? Because some girl wearing her jersey like a bikini is right behind me with full knowledge of this man. She must have researched right before the game.

Women that get into football or baseball or even hockey, sometimes golf (for that old guy you’re crushing on), and throw it all around their facebooks/myspace/into conversations/wear jerseys at inopportune times to catch attention. Are you really excited for the game today? Thank God you got out of work early to watch Monday Night Football.

The real question is: whom do you want to be reading, hearing, or seeing this? Not me, I assume.

There are some women who actually are sports fanatics. They are not just shooting shit, hoping to catch a number, or to excite some guy for about 60 seconds. They have general smarts when it comes to the games.

You can catch these women fast too. They are the women who ask first. They do not wait to be asked. They are in your face, with statistics, player’s numbers, and quoting games from 1997.

I am in awe of these women and this is mostly, because I will never be one of these women. Not because I can’t watch a Red Sox double header (no idea what that means, faking it right here), and not get excited and scream the f-word and call the players losers, or because I can’t sit through a football game, and really root for someone because honestly, sometimes it feels good to root for someone.

But because they didn’t try for you, they did it for them. And that is something to be admired.

Example #2: “Oh yeah, I’d be down for that”

We are lying. Straight up lying 90% of the time. We are not down for threesomes, girl on girl, one night stands, anal sex, sending you perverted pictures, giving blow jobs, doing the 69 position (it’s not high school), role playing, or doing it in your parent’s house.

None of these at first glance are hot. Women do always say, “Well, maybe with the right person.” That is the first truth. Maybe with the right person we could do all of the above, and not think twice about it.

The chances you are the right person? Getting slimmer every time you ask.

But we will play it up. We will pretend. We will drunk text you, and tell you we were thinking about some raucous, raunchy night with you, and then randomly, pass out after said text. Is this alcohol coming in to save the day? Or are we running scared because we are just messing with your mind, and had no plans of anything we were saying?

I’m going to say a mixture of both.

Although women love to push the limits sexually, we may just be saying it. I can say, firsthand, we do not know why. We know we want you to get excited and want us, but the explanation after we decide it’s a no-go makes it counteract.

Men always love to say I know women who do this though, women that love doing this.

I have heard women say it too. I have heard women say they love giving blowjobs, and prefer it to sex. I have heard women say that they are bisexual, and would definitely allow a woman to come into their relationship. I have heard women say they enjoy anal over vaginal sex.

Never mind the crowd of men behind me salivating, barely catching their breath, as they linger on these women’s every word. Those women are clearly being honest.

Example #3: “I love your friends, they’re so funny”

I have always liked all my ex-boyfriends friends, kind of.

I think between your boyfriend’s friends and you, there is an oath being taken on arrival. We will be cordial, we will find one thing in common with each other, and if we do not get along, we will soak that one thing for all it’s worth.

I had a boyfriend where my best friend and him shared a common bond, which was smoking cigarettes. That was all they liked about each other. Otherwise, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. But when they wanted a cigarette before bed, they couldn’t wait to see each other, and sit in silence, puffing.

Nothing is more awkward than meeting the friends. The fact is the friends are always going to slightly hate you. You are taking their friend away. And although, they are happy for you, and are grateful that you make their friend happy, you are still the person cockblocking their time with their friend.

That’s why in movies, television, books, any kind of media, when a girlfriend or wife leaves the boys alone, they all sigh, and say, “Thank God she’s gone.”

Did you ever notice they then go back to doing what they really want to do? That they can’t do it while she’s there? Pretending. It’s both sexes.

We all do love to pretend, but I guess I just don’t see the point sometimes. Will it keep me from someone if I’m not a fan of the Knicks, or if I don’t like the taste of beer, or if I can’t see why Tiger Woods is the shit? Will I get in trouble to be honest one day and say his disgusting friend, is indeed disgusting?

If that is a part of who you are, why does it have to be a part of who I am? I don’t really see that as a form of compromise. It seems more like an intense game of arm wrestling.

Perhaps, this is why I’m missing out on finding love. Maybe it should help I know the Phillies won tonight in the end of the 9^th inning. But I don’t think it will, and even if it did, I wouldn’t broadcast it.

I’d just put it in my blog.

The Flasher

"Pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?"

"Alright, but stop me at one... make that one-thirty."

Location: Fast Eddies, Fairfax, VA (hey, I said I was a person of pattern).

Time: 11:41 pm till closing time.

Situation: My friend Mel and I had set up to go to the bar after work because she never works Mondays, and picked up a shift for our fellow co-worker.

Our other co-worker Keisha “Who gon check me boo?” was suppose to go with us but decided to be MIA for the evening. This greatly saddened us, so to replace our girlfriend I went with the next best choice, Bryan.

We all were just sitting around, having a few beers, shooting the shit, when the talk of flashing people aroused into the conversation.

I talked about how in my day; I have flashed a few people. This would normally embarrass or insinuate that I was some type of floozy, slut, hobag, whore, hussy, bitch stealing boyfriend, but sadly I am none of these things.

I’m just trying to make the men of tomorrow maybe a little happier. There is nothing wrong with an extra kick to someone’s step over a sexual overture.

Some people may think I do it for attention, and attention is great don’t get me wrong, but I can get it many other ways that don’t involve being a total pervert.

Sidebar: This was also in my young years. When kids are still trying to figure out who they are and who they are going to be. By this I mean, don’t judge me. It’s not worth it.

Mel: One time when I was driving home from a game, it was so hot outside my gay friend and I just got completely naked in the backseat.

Kate: What? I don’t even think that would make me any cooler.

Mel: It was okay though; it was just my gay friend and I, and a bunch of our girlfriends. No one looked.

Kate: Yeah right. One time when I was like 20 I was drinking in my car with my friends in the driveway at my house, and I just took my top off, and drank like that for a few hours.

Mel: Now that’s just bizarre. You are such a whore.

All of a sudden, a blonde, pale skinned man approaches me. Bryan had mentioned that he had been checking Mel and I out, but we both didn’t believe him. He was cute in a way. Kind of Fred Durst meets Lord of the Rings and might be a poetry major. Just saying this because he was wearing a beret.

Drew: I was overhearing some of your conversation, and just thought I would come over and say hi.

Kate: Hi.

Bryan: What exactly did you hear?

Mel: You heard us talking about flashing people and getting naked, didn’t you?

Drew: I just heard you all talking, and wanted to come over. Whad does id mattah whad I heard? You guys arrree cool, man.

He was stumbling hard with his words, his body, and definitely was not articulating.

Kate: So, you were listening to our conversation about being naked?

Drew: Yes, sounded awesome! And I have to come talk to these people.

Kate: Well, that’s very nice of you Drew. We were just getting into why Mel was buck-naked in the backseat of a car one time.

Drew: You are a cool girl.

Kate: Yeah, Drew she is cool. She also loves to have sex without a condom.

Drew: Wow, you’re great too and funny.

Bryan: You were checking them out before weren’t you Drew?

Mel: Yeah right, you were only checking Kate out, I saw you Drew. Kate will show you her boobs if you want her to.

Just then Mel grabs my v-neck with her finger, and tries to force it down.

Kate: We are not playing that way tonight, Mel.

Drew: Oh damn, what we got down there? I wouldn't mind taking a peak.

Kate: Okay, let’s go back to what Mel’s sex partner number is.

We continued talking normally, while Drew was standing there. I had to get her back for the drunkard she tried to push me on blogs ago, but it seemed to not be working the way I had hoped.

Finally, I told Drew it was nice to meet him, and he went back to his seat two barstools away.

Bryan: What was wrong with him? Kate, if you go home with him tonight I will be so proud of you.

Mel: Why would you want her to go home with him? I thought she was your friend.

Kate: You should lose respect for me if I did. And I’m only going home with him if Mel comes too.

Mel: Oh yeah, cause Bryan is not giving us the sex sandwich tonight.

Kate: No, he is sadly not. I call the beret.

As we joked about Drew, and saw him dance alone in front of his barstool, I sat thinking maybe I could talk to him. Maybe we could form a relationship, have a long courtship, get engaged, and maybe marriage? We would have little elves running around in no time.

Just as I was debating my case, a girl, a cute girl, walked in, and picked up some balls to play pool with Drew. Drew has a girl? A cute girl? To play pool with?

And just like that, I lost my soul mate.

The Bars

"What's going down, Normie?"

"My butt cheeks on that bar stool."

My efforts to meet men seem to be not as successful as one would have hoped. It could be the bars, the people I go with, the atmosphere, or it could be me. Let’s just pretend for a second, and be in complete denial, that it is not me. That it’s the bars, that it’s them, that maybe I’m sitting too close to my friends and seeming attached, that you can’t make a strong connection next to a pool table. I think that sounds plausible. The fact is, even if I do seem reserved, even if I am talking intensely with my friends, even if I’m not as plowed as the girl sitting next to me spread eagle with a dress on and no underwear, these factors should not affect someone’s cunning prowess of yours truly. I have decided I must decipher these bars with more thought than I have even debated giving them. I need to get to the root of the problem. I need to blame it on the bars, and just go out thinking, it’s not me, it’s definitely you.

I’ll start with Fast Eddies. I do go there regularly. Probably at least once a week, to do research, not just on what type of guy I want, but to witness people’s attempts at getting laid, even if it’s not sadly with me. But the fact remains; do I even want that from any of the people that frequent that joint? I would have to say most likely, not. I realize this is counter-productive for my general cause, but it is a very convenient bar for me to go to. This could be misconstrued as I do not want to find anyone, and that I am not exactly putting myself out there. But my case is this; at least once every few weeks there is one hot guy there. And every time no one is ever hitting on him. Why? He is the untouchable. He reigns so supreme that he becomes almost a figment of my imagination, an image I must have conjured up because I have had one too many beers. He is the enigma, and he’s frightening. Women see him and assume two things, he has a significant other already, or that every bitch is about to pull hair to get to him. Thus, he goes home unsatisfied as well, and we all kick ourselves, and tell our friends, “Oh he’ll be back, next time I’ll go up to him.” But thinking about it now, he’ll never be back. Why would he go back to a place where everyone is looking at him with shocked awe?

Eddies also has a common clientele. The same people, sitting in the same places, talking about the same things, and nothing changes for anyone, thus why people go. It’s my cushion bar. I can look like shit, smell bad, and drink cheap beer, and not have anyone bat an eye. This, of course, is a huge pro for me, but clearly, not great in the scheme of the blog. The blog wants me to be different; it wants me to spread my wings, let loose, and go home with someone that might be unclean. The blog dares me to change, and I stay in my stagnant old pool hall. Eddies must have hot, normal, men lurking in some dark corner. It is flooded with men, because it is suppose to be a cheap, sports, billiard bar, but they are all busy doing other things, whether it be playing pool, playing the fake video bowling game, playing poker in the front room, singing karaoke, or eating pizza, they are all not zoning in on getting tail.

PJ Skidoos is a tiny bit more upscale, and has a variety of different people. Old, young, college, not college, salary earners, and hourly earners, basically there is something for everyone. There is not much more to do then gaze at people, and try to find your prey. You can either talk with friends or hit the dance floor, both of which have greater possibilities. The less activities you can do at a bar, the greater chance for a social connection, basically because you are bored and have no other choice. For women and men, this bar seems to be an easier setup than others for it’s lack of novelties, and it’s smaller bar area.

For the men out there, I know everyone likes going to Hooters but it is mostly pointless for meeting women. I do not mind going to Hooters with people, but the fact remains that very few women do go to Hooters to hang out. And I would say 9 times out of 10, the waitress is not really interested in you. She is working you, she is making her money, and she will give you that fake number that has the recording saying, “This is a fake number because you are a loser and ugly, and she didn’t like you, so fuck off.” Yes, there really is a number that does that. I wish I had it. Hooters is a place to gawk, not to attract and build relationships. If you have found love at Hooters, cheers to you, but don’t tell your friends because you are the exception, and it will never happen for them. You have already become that 1 in 100 people.

Hard Times is a conundrum to me all in itself. Sure, there are a lot of men there. And it is big, and a lot of Mason students do frequent it, and it does have good chili. And there lies the problem. Chili. Who wants to go home with someone who just ate a bowl of chili with cheese, peppers, beans, ground beef, and to top it off, onions? If you have had six beers, a bowl of chili, and a guy wants to take you home? Just go home. What is going to happen in his bathroom after the coitus is just simply not worth it. He will remember you, and not in a good way. I just can’t believe anyone has made a true love connection at Hard Times, but if you have, you know that it’s real. That must be real love to hear someone farting all night, and most likely, all morning, and still wanting to call them again.

Although, I enjoy these bars, and I do go to them regularly, the search for a new, fun, low-key, Fairfax bar is in order. Bars should be like speed dating, and instead they are filled with other attractions such as playing pool and sampling five different types of chili. I’m not saying don’t go to these bars to find your mate, but do be mindful that your odds just skyrocketed. Like I said, it’s got to be the bars, it’s got to be.

The Dick

"How's it going Mr. Peterson?"

"Poor."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, I mean pour."

Location: New York City, NY. Multiple bars on the Lower East Side, mainly a joint called, Tonic.

Time: Around 11 pm till 4 am.

Situation: I was visiting my best friend in New York City. She had just started at Columbia’s grad school, and I had just started grad school, so we thought what better way to celebrate that fact than going out and getting plastered.

I arrived via Boltbus on a Thursday afternoon, and got there with my hopes brimming that it was going to be a great weekend. Marie opened the door to her dad’s apartment, and there she was being mauled with homework. I instantly realized this was going to cause a dent in our fun, and gave her a pouty face.

Marie: Kate, what do you expect from me? I really need to get this shit done. I didn’t know I was going to have all of this shit.

Kate: I’m not worried, you’ll get it done, and then we’ll go have fun. While you do that, I’ll look up different places we can have dinner.

I smiled, and she frowned. She wanted me out of there, but my bus didn’t leave till Sunday. She was officially stuck with me.

The night we went out, we had dinner first at this little hole in the wall we always go to when I come to town. I love it because it’s unpretentious but still has a young following of hot executives, but no one really hits on anyone while they’re eating. So, in that scheme of things, it was probably a waste of time. But in the, I wanted to eat something fatty that would soak up the beer I was going to drink later that night, it made perfect sense.

The bar is relatively small, compacted, cramped (any word that sounds uncomfortable), and has about 80 people standing around it. It’s not the most logical of places. Her cousin, Matt met us up there, and we had a few drinks and left.

We headed back towards Marie’s house, and stopped at Tonic. We had been there a few years earlier. The first time this herd of men was taking up the dance floor, and we were being attacked on all ends of the spectrum. I remember watching my friend take it to the ground with her dance move, and the other just bent over swaying her butt back and forth. A man I was dancing with announced they all had fake ids, were in from some place in Jersey, and then began to jackrabbit me.

Like he was having a seizure, he banged into me so hard, for so long, I remember waking up and wondering how I stood there for one full song, and let that happen. I also questioned what kind of person I was after that, and I came up with that I was a pervert.

I decided this time we went to Tonic it would be different. No jackrabbit, maybe no dancing with strangers, just drinks with friends and laughs.

Just as I was beginning to like this place again, was dancing around to “Beautiful,” by Akon, two men approached.

Let me bottom line this: Two very creepy men. So creepy that I have never seen anyone look more evil in his or her eyes. I may be ridiculous, but I am saying this as fact. They smelled, had sinister smiles, too touchy off the bat, and I just wanted them to get the fuck away from us.

They both looked at me, and I gave a look that yelled, “Get away from us! You are disgusting,” so they immediately approached Marie. She’s nicer, more fun, flirtier, and doesn’t really give a shit.

They hit on her for a while, we’d leave a room, and they’d follow. We thought we lost them, they’d reappear putting their arms all over Marie, and she’d just smile while giving me the woman’s universal “help” look.

I needed a cigarette, and to get away from these douche bags for a minute. I walked outside, and the bouncer told me to walk around to the side to light up. I walked around, and saw some of Dick’s friends. I later named the leader of the pack, Dick, which you will see right now.

Friend #1: (extremely thick Russian accent) Your friend, likes our friend.

I had my back turned, and I yanked around, evil eyeing him for a few moments. This forced me into a diatribe, which lasted a few minutes on how that would never be the case.

Friend #2: Oh yes, she will be coming home with him tonight.

Who were these guys? I once again, strongly negated.

Friend #1: No, no, she wants to eat his dick.

As I stood I realized I had never met such a disgusting trifecta of men.

Friend #2: Yes, we can tell, she does. She wants it bad.

Friend #1: Yes, she will eat a dick, yes.

I let them know that we do not "eat" dick in the good ol' US of A.

Friend #2: Oh she’s feisty, do you like doing that too sweetheart?

As I hurriedly walked inside, I turned to the bouncer. He must have been 6’6, 350 pounds, maybe more, and he was just all around frightening.

Kate: Those guys over there are saying that my friend wants to give their friend a blowjob, and it’s totally inappropriate.

At first, I didn’t think he was going to take me seriously. He looked like the kind of guy that didn’t even have time for what I was saying, and maybe wasn’t listening.

Bouncer: Excuse me? What guys? Where?

He was pissed, like scary pissed, like breathing out of your nose with fire pissed.

Kate: Uh, those guys over there, and there are two inside. They are just being completely offensive.

Bouncer: They’ll be taken care of.

Kate: Oh, it’s not such a big deal. I guess they could’ve been joking. It’s okay.

Bouncer: No, I will take care of them. Go have fun.

I walked inside and saw Marie talking to Dick. I turned to him and let him know that I thought his friends were actually being beat to death outside, and he ran out the back door.

I never saw any of those guys again, but I did make a prognosis in my mind of what happened. The bouncer took them all outside, put them in a line, cut their penises off, and threw them in the dumpster.

When I woke up the next morning, I packed up all my stuff, hugged Marie good-bye, and lugged all of my four bags to the bus stop.

I reached my seat, sat down, looked out the window, and smiled. It was the first time I had ever missed Virginia men.

The Worker

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

Location: Bridges Bar, Fairfax, VA. This bar houses multiple pool tables, but is not a billiard bar. It also has I would say a 20x20 dance floor that is frequented by perverted guys standing in the corner salivating, and one very random ballroom dancer.

Time: 11:45 pm. These will be the normal times because I am a server, and I close my shifts.

Situation: A few guy friends from work asked if I wanted to meet them up there when I finished up.

When I arrive, I look all over for these guys, who are all single, and this leads me straight to the dance floor. There they all are lining the walls of the makeshift floor, bobbing their heads, maybe putting their hands in the air and tipping them back and forth, and in some strange points in the music humping the air even though there is no one near them for five feet.

The scene is Latin men, Asian men, white men, and black men, all standing against the wall. They are all just waiting to make their move, for some girl stupid enough to gyrate their hips near enough to them, thus creating an opening, and boom! They are getting their penises grinded on by a huge butt or a girl seductively taking it to the ground, only to sadly bring it back up again.

This is how American women dance. This might even be how I dance, if I’ve had say, ten beers in me. But tonight, I’ve had one, and might have a second, but that seems pretty tough at the moment.

I find my space next to the wall, and I become these men. Standing there, ogling any big boobed, big assed person that passes me by. And I even push my friends into them.

I am continuing the voyeuristic part of this evening, and for a while I might be the leading contributor.

Totally forgetting about my own personal manhunt, I light cigarettes, and swig beers, laughing, and almost becoming one of the boys. The polar opposite of what I am suppose to be doing here. That is when I get a tap on my shoulder.

A man I do not recognize, looks me directly in the eye, and says: Kate?

Kate: Hi, yeah, it’s me.

I looked at him quizzically for some time, and had no recollection of who this person was.

He then says: It’s me, Carl (this is not his real name, you’ll know why I changed it shortly).

Kate: Carl? Carl! Oh my god. You look so different I didn’t even recognize you!

Just then I look back, and see my guy friends giggling. They don’t know what I know, and they think this man has come to hit on me. Little do they know, that it’s a no.

Carl: Yeah it’s been so long. I think the last time I saw you was at the Fairfax Fair. What have you been up to?

Kate: You’re right it was! That was years ago though. Nothing really, I just started school again, and I’m pretty nervous/excited about that. What about you? Do you have a job?

Carl: Well, I wouldn’t call it a job. But it gets me by.

Kate: You sell pot, don’t you?

Sidenote: The way I know this is because Carl was always a stoner. We went to middle school together, and he had always been like that. And normally people grow out of their childhood ways, but I knew different with him.

He was different.

But I try my best not to judge. Afterall, I never judged my dad for having a pot plant next to my playroom when I was a little girl. I could not possibly start now.

Carl: Heh, yeah I dabble in this and that. But I hope to get my dream job real soon.

Kate: And what is that?

Carl: I’ve always wanted to be a tow truck driver. Right on, right?

Kate: What? All tow truck drivers are such assholes!

This conversation continued for a few minutes. Basically us just going back and forth about what towing companies were rude, and employing possible killers. This conversation while I swayed next to the wall on the dance floor, and my guy friends attempted to listen, but the music was too loud.

He finally walked away, and I was relieved. I could go back to my predatory gaze on the dance floor. But of course, the men insisted on hearing about it.

Web: Who was that?

Bryan: He was totally hitting on you. You should try to slay.

That needs a sidenote: people at my work have their own strange language. Slay means sex.

And I find it funny, even though it’s not, and I am older than most of them, so admitting I laugh at it takes away any street cred I have, and also some of the feminist objections I would normally have to the meaning of the word.

Kate: Guys, you don’t understand. It was most certainly not like that, and it never will be.

Web: You never give people a chance!

Bryan: Just do it, stop being so picky. He was a good-looking dude.

Kate: You didn’t hear our conversation, and you don’t know who he is. And I hate to judge people, and shouldn’t tell you my objections.

Web: Come on Kate, just out with it.

Kate: I knew him from grade school, and I have it on very good authority that his mother fucked her cousin, and made Carl. Are you happy now?

Web: Wait, hold up! Come onnn, you're just fucking with us. Are you saying Carl’s inbred?

Bryan: I don’t care what you say; you should still go home with that guy tonight and make it a smash task.

Like I said, their own language. And I didn’t end up doing any of the above, and I think my mom would be very proud of me for that fact.

The Abstinent

"What's new Normie?"

"Terrorists, Sam. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

I have been single for five years. The first two were voluntary. I had just gotten out of a tumultuous relationship, that both exhausted me, and made me realize the only relationship worth having is a special one. The past three years I have bounced around with different men, and have been infatuated with all of them for an elongated amount of time. My friends make fun of my “crushing,” because it becomes a full-fledged sport or hobby that I have to win at every challenge. The problem is, I very rarely win, and end up walking away from the situation with my tail between my legs. It would make sense if I one day decided to stop acting in this obsessive, over-analyzing, loving, angry, manipulative, endearing (only to myself) way, however, I am a person of pattern. And I believe that if any person should show a pattern, they most likely will follow that pattern until it is forced into breaking or they die.

I decided to write this blog about going out and attempting to give any lame-ass I see a chance. People call me picky, that I have a type, and that I will never allow myself to be happy. But don’t most people know what they want, and go after it? And it has always made me physically nauseous to look at couples that are just with each other so they do not have to be alone, or because they were waiting for someone better to come along. What’s the use? What’s the point? But I suppose I am getting older, and while I am still in my “younger” years I should take advantage of being the girl that wears only a tight skirt and pasties to the bar, and who inevitably goes home with whoever or whatever is left at last call.

I don’t know about all that. But for people that think I don’t put myself out there, and try new things, or that I am unwilling to give any man a chance. You asked for it, and here’s to you.

Location: Fast Eddies Bar and Grille (Might have added the Bar and Grille to make it sound nicer than it actually is, it is a dive billiard pool hall across the street from my work)

Time: 12:00 AM. Around this time is normally when any man with any shred of decency has already left. I would say most likely home to their wife or girlfriend.

Situation: I arrive with my friends, Mel, a girl that bartends where I work, and my friend, Webster, a cook from our work, and we sit at the bar. We sit for a long time chitchatting about past failed relationships, and how Web is a nice guy and deserves a nice girl. This is a common theme when the three of us go to the bar together, and if Mel and I are drinking wine, we most likely end up crying. It is kind of sad that nice guys always finish last, but not sad enough that I am willing to be going home with Webster or probably any nice guy tonight. I think that’s why we were crying, why can’t we just like the nice guy? Why is it always the disgruntled loner who I know I will never make completely happy? Anyway, I digress.

The end of the night is nearing, and it seems my newfound courage is coming up with not even one result. Just as I begin to think about this, a man stumbles into my barstool, and then into my face. He keeps his entire body half onto my barstool, and half on the ground. He tells us his name is Andrew, and continues to close talk to me the remainder of the time we are there. At first he talks to everyone but me, even though his facial stubble is touching my face. He greets Mel, tries to have a weird exchange with Web, and then finally turns to me.

Andrew (overtly drunk, bad breathed, slightly good-looking but this is only casually observed and then intentionally overlooked because I notice he is there alone): “I hate sex.”

Kate: “Excuse me? Who hates sex?”

Mel: “Kate loves sex, don’t you? You should tell him how much you love it.”

Kate: “Mel that is really unnecessary, and you are being such a bitch right now.”

Andrew: “You like to have sex? I guess I do too. But only without a condom, no way else, that’s the good shit.”

Kate: “Wow, that’s a good call. I bet you’re right.”

Mel: “Hey Andrew, do you have a ride home? I bet Kate would be willing to give you a ride.”

Kate: “You are so inappropriate. I am not even going your way, I’m sorry.”

Andrew: “I didn’t even tell you where I live.”

Kate: “I’m not going that way. I just know.”

Web: “Kate, you don’t have to drive me home, you can just take Andrew here.”

Kate: “You are both ridiculous. Nice meeting you Andrew, I think your cab is here.”

By some stroke of luck, they had cut him off, called him a cab, and it was outside waiting for him. Until next time Andrew.