Some people think your (actual) birthday determines the next year. If I’d known that, I would have spent my birthday a little differently. It wasn’t BAD, per say, just nothing I care to repeat for an entire year. The Cliffs Notes version of my birthday…

·         Spent most of the day in bed watching a Law & Order marathon, in deep procrastination.

·         Had dinner with my family.

·         Watched my mother try and con us into burning an old flag because it was the “respectful” thing to do. HOLY WHAT THE FUCK?! There are SO many things that are wrong with this…but let’s start with the fact that flags don’t freaking burn: they are fire retardant. To accomplish such a “respectful” task, an old flag requires soaking in lighter fluid (or some such bullshit) beforehand. My mother skipped this step in favor of lighters and candles. The only substantial outcome, other than a polyester fume high and a few small burnt spots (on the flag), was my poor sister having a piece of polyester burnt into her skin. (That’s what you get for trying to help your mother!)

·         Started writing my paper around 9:30PM.

·         Received a phone call from the guy I was seeing around 10:00PM, who I later discovered, just wasn’t that into me.

You can bet your sweet ass I’ll not be procrastinating on my next birthday or burning ANYTHING with my family. I will be having the best day ever. It will include being totally on top of my school work and lots of awesome sex with a man (not a boy, or guy) who respects me and worships the fucking ground I walk on. I am over the year of procrastination and boys who don’t measure up.

A few months ago I had an interesting conversation with my dad about dating. (Weird, I know.) He said the shitty part about internet dating is that you don’t have a “real” connection with the people you are meeting*. Well, except that you both pay to meet people on the internet. All you can do is cross your fingers people are genuine because you aren’t going to see them again through mutual friends, or run into them at some shared activity. There is no accountability. Don’t want to talk to someone anymore? Pretend they don’t exist. The end! I’m guilty of this, as well. Sometimes it seems silence is more kind…which leaves me wondering: what the fuck happened to make (insert name of anyone interesting I’ve dated since moving to stupid fucking God’s Country) disappear? I feel like I have been doing a pretty good job of not being the crazy girl. My boundaries have improved. I’m not fucking each dude within the first 20 minutes (I’m all way up to 40 minutes of conversation before sex in the Starbucks bathroom). And I wait at least 5 minutes AFTER sex before I profess my love for him, tell him I want to have a million of his babies, and that I can’t wait for him to meet my cat.

Communicating with men via dating websites the appropriate amount of time, graduating to personal email or phone, then eventually in person is exhausting. Especially when you meet and you immediately know it’s not gonna happen. Whether it’s because he’s educated to fucking infinity but has yet to discover the joys of deodorant, freaking you the fuck out by attempting to destroy all the boundaries you’ve set (HELLO! Red flag d-bag!), or you’d rather tongue kiss your cat. All of which makes it more frustrating when seemingly decent men disappear.

Does anyone know who Random Carol is? ? I’ve been receiving referrals from her, but her blog is private.

And to the person who is coming here by way of a “what to ask to my future husband” Google search, you are in the wrong place. (I don’t know why I’m the second result either.) If you continue to return, I may be forced to write a list of things to ask the lucky fucker.

*I hate it when my dad is right.

Seriously, who hits up women on dating websites and woos them with their apathetic attitude toward love? Whatthefuckever.

In other news, I’ve decided I would never have money problems again if every ex-boyfriend who contacted me paid some sort of fee/fine. It appears I’m that girl: the girl who boys profess their love, kindness, and appreciation to AFTER we’re done dating. Thanks a fucking lot guys! I sincerely hope one of the handful of men I’m communicating with right now will appreciate me for all my sassy glory before we’ve broken up. When I asked my friend Steph how to go about charging ex-boyfriends the “I was wrong about you fee” she suggested I make each new guy sign a contract when we first start dating. Lawyers? Help!

After just one week I feel so much stronger! And I’m wearing a pair of jeans that haven’t graced my ass for quite some time. Granted, they’re damn bootylicious, but what’s a little cushion for the pushin’? (Not that I’d know, because I’m rocking Club Celibacy HELLA hard, yo. It just sounded like the right thing to say.)

The one thing that baffles me is the mountain biker uniform. Is there some sort of law requiring them to have shaved heads and big-ass goatees? Yesterday, we saw like eleventy-hundred of them. I’m not even exaggerating! We were surrounded by baldies with ginormous facial hair, running us off the trail. Not that I’m surprised a state that drives like utter and complete assholes (how Christian of them!) have bad manners on bikes; but how hard is it to say, “On your left?” instead of running over two girls with kid in tow? Seriously though, can anyone make sense of their uniform? Because I’m baffled.

• Customers. I LOVE hearing “ladies” threaten their husbands if they are rushed through their next shopping stop: Walmarts.

• No air conditioning in the dressing rooms.

• Chastity sweats. They may not look so chaste on my big ol’ butt, but now I don’t have to covet Mrs. AK and Sarah’s “True Love Waits” sweats at BFF night. I hope Rlo doesn’t feel left out.

My almost-two-year-old niece’s favorite topic of the week is my juggs. (Yes, I called my boobs juggs.) She says my name, hold her hands above her head and yells, “Boobies bid!” Which translates to I have huge boobies. My sister said she’s been talking about them when they’re at home and I’m not around. Lucky me!

I’m a little sad that I didn’t buy chastity sweats. Damn, they’re cute! I would feel awkward when my dad, inevitably, would ask about the writing on my butt. Nothing says I’m saving it like silk screened junk in da trunk, right? By saving it, I mean dishing it out to the next guy who’s decent enough to help me break the rules and regulations of Club Celibacy. Here’s to hoping the next guy I date doesn’t appear as a member of a teen pron chat group in a Google search. I’m not gonna close up shop till marriage or anything, because that could be a VERY LONG TIME. And let’s face it; even with a drawer full of battery charged goodness I don’t have that kind of patience.

How was your weekend?

“The way that guy looked at me directly violated the rules of Club Celibacy.”

“Couldn’t shake me.”
“Just like my vagina.”

Why you comin home 5 in the mornnn
Somethins goin on, can I smell yo dick
Don’t play me like a fool, cause that ain’t cool
So wat u need to do is lemme smell yo dick

Real live polygamists at Walmarts!

“Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a shaved sack.”

“Know what sounds good?”
“VAGINA!”

“He thinks you’re cute.”
“That’s because I am cute.”

“It’s weird watching a cat lick his own butthole.”
“Mommm! What’s for dinner?”
“Buttholes!”
“I could really go for some buttholes.”

“I baked a cake for you. In my pants.”

“Remember when you made me reverse 1/2 a mile in my car for a ‘Dangerous Curves’ sign and I wrecked my car? Wait, that’s because it hasn’t happened yet.”