Does That Mean the Carpet Matches the Drapes?

A trip to Aggieville always has three main goals associated with it:
1. Do not stay sober
2. Do not spend more than $10
3. Do not lose cell phone
However, going to the Ville can sometimes become a bit routine, so it is necessary to set new, loftier goals than the usual ones. One of these goals goes by the name of "let's find our first husbands,” and we set it one night.
About halfway into the evening, we found ourselves at Aggieville's newest, hippest, pseudo-classy bar, the Kathouse Lounge, with only primary goals 2 and 3 accomplished. We were sitting at one of the tables fiddling with the straws of our freshly emptied drinks, when suddenly we were approached by two males. They went ahead and sat down with us and started striking up awkward bar conversation: “So, you come here often?” We were uninterested and after delivering fake names in horrible Southern Belle accents, I decided to clue them in on our night’s objective. I expected the disclosure of our plan to be met with some confusion, and possibly amusement. Instead, I got a minute-long ranting lecture about how this guy was working on his second graduate degree and how successful he was, no thanks to anyone but himself and his hard work (oddly enough, perfect qualities for a potential first husband). My accomplice was sitting next to me, unaware of the angry outburst, and she leaned over and asked if his red beard matched his hair color. In response to this, he ripped off his hat and shouted, “Yes, my hair matches my beard. And you know what else it matches? One hundred percent success!” He then stormed off.

Moral of the Story:
Don’t base success on pubic hair.

Eau de puppy piss

Last summer I worked at a clothing store in Kansas City. There was a period when we were hiring, and we received a myriad of ... special applicants. One day, I came to the front of the store from the back and immediately noticed a horrible stench. It reeked of urine. Odd, considering our staff was potty trained. I then noticed a scruffy looking man sitting on one of our couches filling out an application. Okay, that in itself is not odd. We have had male sales associates in the past, as well as male stock support. What was odd was that the stench was coming from his direction. I kid you not, there was a five foot radius of the toxic fumes around this fellow. As I walked to the cash wrap I happen to look in Smelly's direction and he is giving me crazy eyes. This continues, with him distributing his frightening gaze to all who were present in the store. Finally, as I try to stick to the outer edge of the store to avoid both his leers and his smell, he turns in his application and leaves. He does remember to ask where the bathroom is.
My boss shrieks and calls me over to look at the application. It was both disturbing and hilarious at the same time. He wrote that he had no transportation, and his references were "Pete and Nick." Literally, that's all it said, no phone number or last name, just "Pete and Nick." The best part was under the question about being convicted of anything. Smelly wrote the most in this portion.
"I was arrested for sexual battery. I went to a hooker and asked if I could touch her boob and she was a cop and arrested me."

So yeah, considering he asked for the nearest bathroom before he left, he was clearly trying to drum up material by getting a reaction out of us. Because obviously he wasn't going to use it to actually urinate, judging by the smell of him, he'd already done that.

Moral of the Story:
Don't pee where you play.

So, do you want me to slap you around a little?

As crazy as it may sound, I am a bit outspoken. Ever since I was little I have harbored the inability to keep my mouth shut. So, last semester I was in a class that I like to refer to as "Gender Confusion." It had something to do with sexism and the media. Anyway, there was an individual who was convinced he was playing the role of devil's advocate. He was not, he was just being the world's biggest dumbass, as evidenced by some of his statements. One day, we were in the middle of a discussion, and I was making a point. Well, dumbass apparently got confused and thought I was done and interrupted me. I did not stand for such treatment, and turned around in my seat and gave him a piece of my mind. I got many a thank you from others in the class who were equally put out with his behavior.

Fast forward to this semester. Last night I went to the bars to celebrate my platonic life partner's birthday. Wouldn't you know, somehow dumbass knows someone in our group. After some prodding he remembers who I am. He then proceeds to regale everyone with the time I "yelled" at him. Dumbass admits that after the verbal lashing, he became "very into" me. What? I wasn't teasing, I really do dislike this kid. He continues by making awkward head motions, which I can only conclude are a result of being dropped on his head as a child. He then keeps trying to coerce me into dancing with him, and many an unwanted touch occurred on my arms and back. Needless to say, I declined his offer to dance. I continued to verbally abuse him, which only served to stoke his fire more. At this point I deduce that dumbass is into S&M, and ask him if he enjoys being hit. He fails to comprehend. The night ended with him begging me to go to another bar with him, me saying no, and him walking off in a huff.

Moral of the Story:
Unless I'm holding a whip in my hand, I'm not abusing your for sexual enjoyment. I just don't like you.

What? We can make it a family affair.

This incident is fairly recent, and I finally learned to quit involving myself with guys that I meet at bars. I went to a Karoke competition that my musically talented roommate was in, and met the Mexican. The Mexican seemed like a decent fellow, a little awkward, but so clearly am I. He was getting his PhD in computer sciences, so I was attracted to the intelligence. The good looking part didn't hurt.

Well, after hitting it off, the Mexican and I hung out a few times while I was still in Manhattan, and while I enjoyed myself, I didn't see it going anywhere. I had just broken up with someone, and was really just looking for a distraction.

Summer came, and I ventured back to Kansas City. Since we had never set follow up dates, I decided to just let my Latin experience fizzle out. When I started getting emails from the Mexican, I figured, aww what the hell, maybe something will develop from this, I'll give it a try.

The Mexican contacted me to let me know he would be in town for a buddy's housewarming party, and wanted to know if I'd like to hang out. He also mentioned that it would be him and several friends that would be in town. At one point I got an e-mail saying he may have to cancel, because he didn't have any place to stay. I still didn't know him very well, nor did I know his friends, so I wasn't about to offer my parents' place up. I said as much (but much nicer) in an e-mail. He figured out a place to stay, and we were back on track.

So, that weekend he picks me up after work to take me to the new bar scene downtown. I have no sense of direction, and he is not from the area, so it was a little difficult getting there. Apparently that made it okay for him to be rude to me. Not okay. Then, we get to the Power and Light district, and one of the bars had a cover charge. I don't have cash, he doesn't offer to pay. Not to be old fashioned, but he invited me. I tell him I will get him a drink if he pays my cover charge. Instead of being a gentleman, he takes me up on it. Ooookay. We meet up with one of his friends and the night is filled with awkward, stilted conversation. I realize that I should have trusted my first instincts and just let it fizzle out.

The best part is when he took me home. We pull into my driveway and as I'm about to exit the car, he turns to me and says.
"I don't understand what the big deal is, why I couldn't stay."
"What?"
"Well, I don't understand why I couldn't have spent the night."
"Um, because this is my parents house and that's disrespectful, plus, I thought there would be more of you coming."
"Yeah, I guess I still don't understand what the big deal is."
"Ookay, well have a good night."

Well, here's what the big deal was. I didn't know him that well, and I didn't have my parents permission. Not to mention, I was under the impression that he had a group of friends that needed a place to stay. If he were a good friend, or even a boyfriend, it would have been a different story.

Moral of the Story:
Sleepovers are a privilege, not a right.

I would, but I already have an imaginary boyfriend.

My second year as a lifeguard (I was 16 at this point) I had a mild flirtation with "Mack." (Only because I can't remember his name). Anyway, Mack was a student at a Naval prep academy, and this was his last summer of freedom before he enlisted. There was nothing noticeably wrong with him, and despite learning he had a girlfriend, I still enjoyed the innocent flirting. I just knew enough to expect nothing out of it.

Well, Mack realized that he would soon no longer be available to his girlfriend, so he broke up with her. Since I knew he would be leaving soon, I decided not to pursue anything after the break up. Apparently Mack had other ideas. Mack was a member of that fun breed (of both men and women) that cannot fathom the idea of not being in a relationship. Two weeks before his last day, Mack approached me and asked if I would be his temporary girlfriend. While flattered, I politely declined.

Moral of the Story:
You can have temporary living situations, temporary jobs, but a temporary girlfriend may as well be dubbed an escort. At least then she can demand pay.

It's a small, bloody world, after all

Last year, my living situation was a little tense, to say the least. One of the roommates had an ongoing problem with locking the doors. It is difficult, I'm sure, when one is intoxicated 90 percent of the time, to remember such trivial things. How does this relate to men? I'll tell you.

One evening, all of the roommates but myself had gone out for the evening. The next day I get a knock on my door. My favorite roommate was at the door, and asked me if I was okay. I looked at her funny and said of course I was. I then saw the origin of her concern. Our bathroom was covered in blood. There were drops on the floor, in the sink, and in the toilet. It looked like someone had attempted to wash themselves, and failed horribly. I then ventured downstairs.

In the middle of the dining room floor was a huge bloodstain, and hand prints on the door jambs. What the hell? After much confusion, and an eventual call to the police, we had an idea of what happened.

Some guy had apparently gotten very drunk and took it out on his arm. He then took a very bloody, very long hike to our house, more then ten blocks away. Since genius had forgotten to lock the door, he walked in and proceeded to bleed all over our house. Considering all of the blood he left at our house, and his ten-block trip, it's a wonder we didn't find a dead body in our house. He then passed out for a little while, woke up, and dragged himself to the hospital.

Well, following a little facebook stalking, it turns out that I used to date one of his frat brothers. Go figure. This made the clean up a lot easier, i.e, our mutual "friend" got him to pay for the clean up. I'm assured that the bleeder does not have a problem with alcohol or depression. I beg to differ, but as long as he's done bleeding on my belongings, it's out of my hands.

Moral of the story:
Don't live with people who can't lock the door, and invest in teflon flooring.