Halloween. The one holiday in which women are given a huge pass to basically show up to a party completely naked. I feel like every year I see women who are trying to out-skank and out-offend the previous year…don’t quote me on this, but I’m pretty sure I know of one person who is planning a “Sexy Kim Jong-un” costume. I, on the other hand, take pride in becoming the weirdest, ugliest and funniest person I can possibly be.
Let’s take this past year as an example. I decided, after much consideration and countless hours of research, to go through Halloween 2012 as Dooneese from SNL (played by Kristen Wiig). If you don’t know this character then…you must not like to laugh and therefore why are you reading this blog? Just kidding…but seriously. I was outfitted in a bald cap to make a huge forehead and glued tiny baby hands (that I amputated from a doll) onto a 40’s style dress. I didn’t break character at the party and continued to sing weird ass songs which turned off some potential gentlemen callers, but you would have to be the freakiest of guys to hit on me – think something out of TLC’s Strange Sex. Like, what if someone asked me out and then I had to wear tiny baby hands for the date? And then, I would be afraid to take them off and would continue to lie to him until one day he catches me, red full-size handed, and he leaves me. There’s nothing more depressing than getting dumped by a man who has a tiny baby hand fetish..besides actually dating a man with a tiny baby hand fetish.
I may not be getting laid on Halloween (or ever, who the hell am I kidding), but at least I’m not getting a weird infection from cheap latex cat suits purchased on Hollywood Blvd. The only thing I’m buying on Hollywood Blvd is a bacon wrapped hot dog…but I’ll leave that for another post.
You know, I felt like it would be hypocritical to not go out with a guy who is divorced, considering that my parents got divorced when I was seven. Granted, this particular douche bag didn’t actually disclose his marital status (FUCK YOU, OK CUPID) so I totally default to the fact that this particular situation was 100% not my fault. I met SSDbag downtown on a random Saturday night when, yes, something in my brain was telling me…”shit ain’t right, girl,” but I ignored this feeling. We went out, four times, and I liked him. He is 6’4, blonde, from New York state and just a super manly man…which I LOVE. Sorry, but you can’t help what you’re naturally attracted to. Fact. But yeah…speaking of facts…he turned out to be a GIGANTIC ASSHOLE. Long story short, we had four dates and then he went to Vegas for my 30th birthday weekend. Sure, he tried to get me to go, but when I declined, he then FORGOT about my 30th birthday and then didn’t call me for a week. What-the-fuck-ever, I totally forgot about you and your balding blonde head.
The kicker here is when he tried to re-connect, post-30th birthday, and said the reason he didn’t call/text me is cause he was in “the Vegas zone,” which is, apparently, when you’re just so stuck in your gambling high that you can’t even deal. “Well how much did you win?” I asked. His response? “I lost like $2,000.” WHAT A FUCKING LOSER. I don’t date losers, guys. If you forget my 30th birthday, you better have a GOOD FUCKING EXCUSE. E.G. You won some SERIOUS MONEY. Like baller status, ok? Douche!
Long story short, I was over him faster than John Mayer was over Taylor Swift. Good luck being alone forever (in a gross LA suburb, mind you).