Trainwreck in 3… 2… 1…

So, since I’m new to this whole “blogging more than once every few months” thing, I’ve spent part of yesterday and some of this morning trying to figure out what to write about. I keep coming back to one thing, but repeatedly try to push it out of my mind. I think that I’ve come to realize that writing this is going to be like brainstorming a design – if it’s in your head, you’ve gotta get it OUT. Good or bad, it’ll keep bouncing around in there until you go insane until you release it upon the world. So…


My past romantical relationships, to be more precise. To be even more specific, the last 2 guys I dated have left a path of idiocy and weirdness that is straight-up sitcom worthy. What follows is a sampling of the last year of my life and my experience with testosterone.

First, we have A. He was a friend of a friend, and A was cute… really cute. So while the majority of my history with boys has something to do with, you know, their brains, this one was certainly the exception, as I mostly concentrated on his face, biceps, and abs.

A made fun of me when I would use a word like “menagerie” or anything over a few syllables, because I was “trying to sound smart.” He was terrible at Scattergories. He would fall asleep on my couch at 9pm after I made him dinner (without even first helping with the dishes) and would rather go hang out at a bar with my guy friends than do something with me. Yep, all that stuff is awful, I see it now. Hindsight… I should have ended it all far more quickly than I did, but like I said… SO CUTE.

Anyway, while that is all ridiculous in itself, the end justified the means: after I told A that I wanted to break up with him, and that he needed to figure out what he wanted to do, he refused to take any calls from me or, later, return voicemails regarding what to do with all his stuff he left at my place. That, readers, is why I have in my possession a CD of a “rap” that he and his other lanky small-town white boy friend “laid down” on his “computer.” This rap (a term that I use so loosely that it’s threatening to fall right off this page) is exactly the sort of rap that you’d expect a 11 year old boy to write. It has all the key rap words and actions, every soft cuss word, every tough & nasty cuss word, a remarkable excess of the N-word, plus a chorus that makes you want to pour a chaser of gasoline into your ears. I’ve played it for several friends, who all have the same response – alternating between being close to dying laughing and having their jaw plummet to the ground. It’s nuts. I’ve been asked to put the mp3 on youtube… but here’s what I think: do you remember that movie “Mars Attacks?” At the end, the grandma’s terrible old-people song is played and all the Martians’ heads explode. That’s my endgame. This precious piece of shit on my ipod will be utilized to its full extent when it’s released at full volume upon some unexpected bad guys. Their heads will explode, and we will all rejoice.

Then we’ll pour gasoline chasers into our ears to make it less painful.

Next up: The tortured musician, B.