Asshole

Some boys don't deserve their Blue Moon.

What kind of guy walks out on the fuck of the year? Just because I want to capture our precious moment on film?

Lame.

I know it's not me, so it's gotta be him. Who the hell does he think he is?

On an unrelated note, if Amber keeps frequenting Ground Zero, it's only a matter of time before she runs in to my ex-boyfriend. He doesn't really fall into the category of "you don't know what you're missing, asshole" since he sorta came out of the closet after we broke up.

Should I have picked up on the signs while we were together? His penchant for shemale porn, his complete lack of interest in breasts, his nightly request to get blindfolded, whipped, and blown prior to anal-only sex?

Probably. But I had a lot of other shit on my mind at the time.

Preferences

5 Beers I'd Rather Drink Than Blue Moon (But Sometimes a Girl's Gotta Make Sacrifices):

5. Budweiser (It's the King.)
4. Dos Equis Amber (Con lima, por favor.)
3. WARSTEINER (In CAPS because whenever saying WARSTEINER, one should always sound like they front a German goth metal band. WARSTEINER!!!)
2. McEwan's Scotch Ale (One of few heavyweight beers I'll actually drink, partly because it's so damn strong.)
1. Hoegaarden (My favorite Belgian white. Fruity, snappy, delicious!)

I'm Actually Not

Ugh, what a boring start to what promises to be a lame week. Nothing of interest over on Missed Connections, the only item in entertainment news is O.J.'s book being pulled (big fucking surprise), Diablo's contemplating dying her pubic hair pink (actually not a bad idea; I may join her), and the Minneapolis police fucked up again.

Yawn.

Just get me through this week, just get me through this week. Can't I even count on the internet to get me through this week?

Thanksgiving is my absolute least favorite holiday of the year, as I usually spend it surrounded by people I barely know. People I've barely known for the last 29 years. I prefer to crawl into a corner and stick my nose in a fashion magazine for the duration. A little trick Steve taught me, actually, except he does it with a tome. Works every time; these people who've known you for three decades are just relieved that they don't have to labor through awkward post-dinner conversation.

"So... what is it you do again? I can never quite understand your job."

"I'm a prostitute, but don't tell Grandma. What do you think of these fingerless gloves?"

It's a bullshit holiday, anyway. How many other countries celebrate genocide with a gorging feast?

Numbers

Him: "Have you ever made... 'a list', and then over the following days, kept 'remembering' people to add to that list?"

Me: "You know, I hadn't done that in years, but recently decided that it was time again. I got first and last names for everyone except That Guy in the Blue Hoodie. So what do you have? Come on, you can tell me."

Him: "Are we keeping score? If so, you have to tell me first. I do have two Melissas, a couple Jennifers, and a couple Angelas. I got nobody named Maria, however. I tried."

Me: "I've got two Petes, but otherwise no duplicate names. I'm at an even 30, counting two girls."

Him: "No kidding, I'm at 31. But that counts these two girls in Thailand. Technically, it was one event. Does that count as two still? If not, we're tied. I didn't even pad the numbers with 'close calls' either."

Me: "Wouldn't it be fun to start a Myspace-type website of people you've slept with? It would bring the whole 'you've had sex with everyone your partner's had sex with' STD-awareness thing together with the six-degrees of separation aspect of social networking sites. Think of how many people you and I have shared. We've probably done each other twice over."

Him: "I wonder if we have any overlap? We should definitely try to fix that."

Me: "I'm guessing if we actually sat down and thought about it, we'd find more friends in common, then some sort of overlap. Of course, we could always just cut right to the chase."

Him: "I'm all for cutting right to the chase. And I just decided to start a second list of 'People, No Matter What My Current Situation is, I Would Bend the Rules to be With'. In case you were wondering, yes, you made the list."

Me: "I don't have a 'current situation', but I'll also make a second list and put you on it."

Him: "I'm so flattered! I got on a list. Now it's time to get on that other list."

Snacks

Top five reasons to eat at the mall:

5. Häagen-Dazs
4. Mrs. Field's
3. Godiva
2. Auntie Annie's
1. Cinnabon

The Science

Have I mastered the science of hooking up, and therefore need to move on?

I have a 100% success rate when I go to the bars alone, but yet I insist on frequently going out with my girls. Why is that?

Perhaps there's more to observe. My girls, they're different than I am. I watch and respect their methods. The way they approach and talk to men. The way they tell all about themselves in every conversation. It's fucking fascinating. Most men walk away from me without knowing anything about me.

Yet I'm so totally bored with men most of the time that watching my girlfriends interact with them is sometimes more entertaining than screwing with them myself.

Perhaps a sign of age? Perhaps a sign of boredom?

I vote for the latter. YAWN.

SWF ISO Ryan Phillipe

Dear Ryan,

I hear things aren't going so well between you and Reese. Aww, that's a shame. Listen, I know you guys have kids and all, but if it's not working out, it's not working out. You need to officiate that divorce and give me a call. I'll gladly play the role of Weekend Mommy.

XOXO

Apple Trees

I've been big on analogies lately, and everyone around me seems to be having relationship problems, so let's try this one: A man is an apple tree. After yelling "MAKE ORANGES!" at him for long enough, does he actually start giving you oranges? No, of course not. He can only give apples.

Women grow and change, but men are forever twelve years old. This is the great dichotomy; God's twisted little joke. He will always chew with his mouth open. He will always leave his dirty socks in the bathroom. He will always forget your birthday. No matter how hard you try, you will fail at trying to change him.

So you accept men for what they are. You abstain from elevating your expectations. You abolish the idea of the perfect man. You refuse to set yourself up for failure.

Do you swear off men forever? No, of course not. Eventually, someone will come along with only a handful of tolerable inadequacies. You accept the sum of his parts, because he's nothing greater than that.

For now, you just relax and have fun. There's no need to settle for some fucked up lunatic just so you can turn him into a project. That's nothing more than self-torture (or self-aggrandization, depending on how you look at it).

Cherish thyself.

Use As Directed

Alright. Back in the saddle after one of those weekends that just didn't go quite as planned.

First, I'd just like to point out that I'm not happy about having to miss Amber and Rich's Halloween party. But when duty calls, I must answer. It sucks sometimes having to go completely under the radar when the job calls for it, but a girl's gotta make a living.

So I duck out of society for a day to get some shit done for a client who runs a big club in town. The toughest task on the list? Finding 100 unique, Halloween-themed refrigerator magnets for the guests of his party. Some of the easy stuff? Two ounces of choice kind bud, a pair of authentic blue suede shoes, and ten of the prettiest party girls (complete with costumes) you've ever seen.

By the way, Minneapolis nightclub owners really do hire groups of beautiful women to stand around and look good; it's not just for L.A. and New York. I've been asked by this particular club owner to round up some ladies five times to date, so I'm able to assemble a super group of choice girls on 24-hours' notice now. They absolutely love me, too. I should work towards becoming the Heidi Fleiss of the Twin Cities or something.

Anyway, after I was done rounding up all that shit for my client, and setting up the party, and staying until the wee hours to make sure there were no snags on the front end, I decided to hop in my car and head out of town by myself. I checked into a Super 8 in Chisago County and collapsed almost immediately upon walking into my room. Oh, and I don't mean I fell asleep. I mean I collapsed because I fainted from exhaustion. I came to a minute later (I think) and drank a couple glasses of water. I flipped on HBO and fell asleep watching some Ashley Judd crime drama.

I woke up to the sound of a husky Honduran maid trying to get in past the little lever lock thing (what the hell are those called?). Apparently, they thought I was dead or something. I didn't even hear the phone ring when the front desk guy called to remind me that checkout was an hour ago. Needless to say, they weren't receptive to the idea of me staying another night, which was kinda the point of me going out of town. When things get too hectic in the city, I have to head out to the country for a day or two. Where the locals breathe a little slower (albeit through their mouths), where people aren't screaming through cell phone lines, and, even though it's a huge fucking inconvenience for a vegetarian, where the only meat-free item on the menu is the house salad. It's a weird sort of solace.

So I drove back home and settled for the artificial version. I popped a Xanax and turned off my ringer. I slept for nearly 17 hours, with the last 3 or 4 of them being that sweet in-and-out sleep, when you roll over and pet your cat and think about getting up, but close your eyes and just sink back in again.

I could be the only person I know who uses prescription drugs sparingly and as directed.