As a chick, I feel that I should be the one being pursued. Call me old fashioned. Sue me. I don’t give a fuck.
So when I pursue a guy, I feel like I have a dick. It just… BOING!
I think my mom could sue a pharmaceutical company for this.
I went through a phase in my life when if I was ever asked to do something I didn’t particularly care for, I’d respond with, “I don’t wanna get pregnant.”
“Can you hang out?” I don’t wanna get pregnant.
“Why are you being an asshole?!” I don’t wanna get pregnant.
“Jess, come with me to the bathroom.” I don’t wanna get pregnant.
On Saturday someone asked me why I wasn’t drinking. I said I was pregnant. He gave me a funny look because I had TOTALLY been downing some potent mixed beverage called Agent Orange (active ingredients: everclear and Tang) just a little while before.
I really stopped drinking because my buddy Pat wanted to go hard with his buddies so I said I’d drive us back. I also found people doing cocaine in a back room and wanted to be in the right state of mind if one of the coke users went off the deep end.
I went grocery shopping with my buddy Matt. He’s the best. He drives me around everywhere and makes sure I don’t go crazy when living alone. I’m a social person and need social contact.
I really like Fuji apples; they’re the first things I buy when I go to the super market. I’d have to say they’re my favorite fruit, but as luck would have it, an elderly man was restocking the apples, large cart blocking my fucking fruit of choice.
I decided to wait instead of roaming the produce sections; I was gonna have my pick of the litter once the old one had moved on. I got antsy and struck up a conversation:
Me: How are you?
Old Guy: I’m fine. Yourself?
Me: I’m grocery shopping, and it’s pretty much the highlight of my week.
Old Guy: Oh, that’s sad.
Whatever, man. It’s the little things. I have a bag of sweet apples and I’m happier than a pig in shit.
I will know I’ve found “the one” when he gives me a pack of hair ties, lip balm, and a bag of apples.
Like I said, it’s the little things.
Whenever I go to a party and it’s BYOB I always bring wine and drink it straight from the bottle.
Because I’m a classy fuckin’ pirate.
Jess… isn’t that how you chipped your tooth? Let me get you a cup. Gimme that bottle.
My paternal grandmother is very white and super racist. I don’t blame her too much for her ways. I find that most folks her age are racist, products of their eras, if you will. Since I’m of her bloodline she’s pretty damned nice to me…relative to us other “coloreds.” Whatever. Karma got her ass.
She had two sons, and neither gave her white grandchildren. My uncle Bill married a nice, Catholic lady, but alas, they couldn’t have their own children so they adopted my cousin Rebecca who is of Hispanic descent. My father married my Korean mother and conceived mongrel, barbaric children (Celtic warrior father, Mongol horde mother).
Gramma: I just wanted some Wonder Bread, some crackers! BUT I GOT RICE AND BEANS INSTEAD!
Okay, she didn’t really say that, but I’d bet my morning coffee the thought has crossed her mind.
I have to really start working out instead of pigging out.
My university’s crew team is going to do a tastefully nude calendar as a fundraiser of sorts.
Girls are in high demand for the sport… Few girls for the calendar… Eh heh heh~ Fuck.
Whatever. I’ll post the spreads if I think they look nice (read as: if I don’t look ridiculous).
Shit, I’ll even post the order form if you lovely readers would like to help out my team.