Tag Archives: humor

The Big Bang


In high school, girls want one thing: a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be sensitive, smart, or even have any common interests. I’m not saying that goes for every girl; some are lucky and find their soul mate early in life. We’ve all heard stories of people marrying their high school sweethearts. Bitches. Well, I’m wasn’t one of those lucky girls, but I was that girl who wanted a boyfriend just for the hell of having a boyfriend. Throughout most of high school I managed to have a few flings, yet nothing really “Facebook official.” And then during the summer before my senior year of high school I met my first legitimate boyfriend.

My friend Bella and I were invited to some guy’s graduation party at a fitness club. We had only met the kid at Starbucks a day before, yet we decided to attend since there wasn’t anything better to do in a small quiet town when your 17-years-old. Plus, we considered the fact that maybe this kid had some cute friends.

The fitness club smelt like sweaty feet and chlorine, and I was trying to understand why someone would want to have any kind of celebration at a place filled with tan meatheads and frustrated obese people. Bella and I found the party on basketball courts. Turns out, the ratio of girls to guys was the two of us: ten other dudes… none were our type per say. The thing was, we had two hours to kill until Bella’s mom came to pick us up, so we decided to hang by the pool rather than participating in a hardcore game of dodge ball.

While we dipped our feet in pool, I could feel this cute blonde lifeguard eyeing me from his tall chair. Eventually, he grew some balls and came over to us.

“I bet you wouldn’t jump in that pool with all your clothes on right now,” he said.

“Umm, you bet right,” I replied, thinking this kid had no game.

“I would rescue you,” he said. Okay, this kid really had no game.

“Even if I did, what makes you think I would need you to rescue me? I happen to be a very good swimmer, my friend.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. What an effing tool.

“Well, it’s not happening tonight, sweetheart.”

“Okay how about instead of jumping in the pool, you give me your number.”

“I just want you to know that this has to be the strangest pick-up line I have ever heard. But fine, I’ll give you my number.”

To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I gave him my number, but I did. And I didn’t really think I would see this kid again, but I did. A week later, he called me and asked me if I wanted to get some lunch and watch a movie at his house. Weirdly enough, something inside of me said to go for it. He picked me up from my house and looked like he was dressed to impress. I got into his pimped-out Honda civic (A.K.A. a rice-burner), and immediately thought: this isn’t going to work out. But then we got to talking… I can’t really explain it, but we had some kind of chemistry going on. Also, it turned out that the kid was a sweetheart and was sort of a gentleman, giving me all the compliments I wanted to hear at 17-years-old.

A week or two later, we became an official couple, and by official I mean “Facebook Official.” Everyday he would come over to my house after work. After some small- talk, we would have an intense make-out session and relieve our raging adolescent hormones. Then maybe after two months of dating, we fell “in love.” He spoiled me with flowers, tacky pajamas, stickers, drug store candies, and stuffed animals. As a naïve teenage girl, I thought this guy was truly a keeper.

On the Fourth of July, he took me out on his friend’s boat. While sitting on the roof of the small yacht, we kissed under the fireworks lighting up the sky. I felt like Julia Roberts in a corny romantic comedy, and my First was like Richard Gere, with blonde hair and a little acne. For the rest of the summer, we enjoyed young romantic love… then senior year came around the bend, and our relationship took a turn for the worst.

For some reason or another, we fought like bipolar animals. Saying this guy was a very jealous boyfriend is putting it lightly. He needed to know where I was at all times and was constantly checking my text messages to see if I was texting other guys, and if he did find one, he would go ballistic. In a way, it was kind of nice having a guy care about me that much; yet, the obsessive behavior got real old, real fucking fast.

As much as we fought we did have our tender moments as well. That October, he took me out for a romantic night in New York City for our pathetic two-month anniversary.  He knew I was into ethnic foods and decided to take me to an Indian Restaurant. When we got the menu, I could see his eyes bulge out of his head a little bit. I realized there was nothing on the menu under $40. So he decided to skip out on the meal while I shamelessly indulged. Afterwards, we took a midnight stroll through Central Park, holding hands and smooching the night away.

Then when we got back home, it happened. It wasn’t planned, which is the way I wanted it to happen. We were cuddling in my bed after a precious night in Manhattan. Then it happened. Yes, Houston we have lift off! According to the theory, the earth started with the Big Bang, and I guess my womanhood started with a big bang, too. The only thing was, my Big Bang wasn’t this exciting cosmic explosion. Honestly, I always fantasized that my first time would be like that steamy, passionate, and romantic sex scene with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in “Titanic.” But no, my first time was definitely not steamy or romantic; it was sweaty and awkward. I was just laying there like I was playing the “light as a feather, stiff as a board” game that I used play at slumber parties in 4th grade. Regardless, I was excited that it had finally happened, and I wanted to tell it to the world: Briana Blum is no longer a virgin (thank God I didn’t)!

Towards the end of the year, things were not going well with my First. We fought every second of the day, and his possessiveness became rather unbearable. Everyday I would discover something else about him that annoyed the crap out of me. For instance, his laugh… Oh Mother of Pearl, his laugh sounded like a hyena on crack. And then there was his sense of humor; he was white as day, however he couldn’t get enough of Black comedy movies. This is something I could not quite grasp since Black comedy usually involves jokes that only Black people can relate to. Another big irritation-he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the batch. Conversations were rarely intellectual and more on a 3rd grade comprehension level. Although, the list goes on and on, and probably deserves its own book, I knew I couldn’t ditch him just yet; After all, prom was just around the corner and I needed a date.

For prom, the plan was to take pictures at my house, take a party bus to this tacky restaurant, and then have the bus take us to Seaside, which is on the Jersey Shore. Seaside, or otherwise known as “Sleazeside,” is the place that all kids in the tri-state area go to after prom. Basically, we spend the weekend in the kind of cheap motel that you need to bring your own sheets and cleaning supplies to. Seriously, the rooms are somewhat of a biohazard, and you’re chances of getting Hepatitis A, B, and C are likely if you don’t come prepared with antiseptics.

So, prom was literally a week away and my First and I were on the brink of ending it; however I threatened that if he backed out on me beforehand, I would have to kill him. Seriously though. Every night until then, we broke up and then got back together. Communicating with this kid was worse than Chinese torture and all I wanted to do was to get this shit over with so that I could dump him.

Finally the big day had arrived. I put on my shocking blue dress, which tastefully showed off my perfectly perky young breasts (this was when my tatas were in their prime and had not yet been defeated by gravity). I got my hair professionally done, spent hours on my makeup, and I thought I looked like a fucking movie star. Since my prom date and I hated each other, it made taking pictures really fun. Actually, if you look at our pictures you can blatantly see the tension and fire of hate in our eyes.

We all hopped on the party bus and my friend whipped out a water bottle of vodka, to which we treated like holy water. For most of the ride there, I hogged the bottle, carefully consuming enough sips to make prom fun. We arrived and the place looked like your typical tacky venue for a bar mitzvah or something. My date, of course, decided to be a real jerk and tried to ruin the special event every chance he got. He refused to take that stupid professional picture couples take at prom, and for the whole 4 hours he danced with all the dateless girls there. He wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. So I sat at the table watching all my friends bump and grind, having the time of their life.

After the longest and most miserable prom in the history of proms, we hopped on the bus and we were finally on our way to Sleazeside. My date took his own car because he said he didn’t want to stay with me the whole weekend (I thought that was the smartest decision the dumbass had ever made). My friends and I partied on that bus like there was no tomorrow, sipping cheap vodka we stole from our parent’s liquor cabinets.

We also took various provocative pictures- the same pictures that got me grounded for two weeks after my mother joined Facebook and saw her only daughter posing in some vulgar and offensive positions. I was mortified and angry about the clear violation of my Facebook privacy, thus I created the group “Teens Against Parents Joining Facebook.”

My date and I shared a motel room with my best friend, Megan, and her boyfriend who, might I add, were head-over-heels for one another. Meanwhile, my date and I had a death wish for one another. Despite the tension and strong hostility, my First and I agreed we would still have the traditional prom night sex/breakup sex, even though we would be breaking up at the end of the weekend.

Before I disclose the next detail of the story, I would like to explain where Megan and I were at mentally during this chapter of our young lives. My best friend and I had talked about the day we would lose our “V-Card” since we were young little girls. We both lost it that year (months apart), and suddenly we acted as though we were inducted into some kind of secret society of sex. It was an everyday topic and we would spend hours discussing it. No detail-no matter how personal-was spared. We shared it all. We were like two sport-fanatic men that always talk about sports; except, we were two sex-fanatic girls that always talked about sex… and instead of going to football games, we went to Victoria’s Secret to shop for lingerie and lacey thongs.

That’s exactly what we did a couple of months before prom. We went to our girl Victoria’s and bought matching lingerie for that special night we would be sharing in the same lousy motel room. We weren’t all going to have an orgy or anything, but we thought it would be super sexy to walk out together in matching sex costumes like a couple of Rockettes or something. The two of us even considered choreographing a sexy dance to do before the main event, but then realized that maybe a dance performance would be a tad bit over-the-top.

Right before the “big entrance,” Megan and I pinky-promised to keep our eyes glued on our own sexual situation. We swore to never sneak a peak at what the other was doing in the next bed over. We also vowed to stay under the blankets at all times, keeping the “big show” under wraps.  After thoroughly going over our agreement, we stepped out of the bathroom and watched our dates’ eyes widen like ravenous animals.

Looking back, I guess privacy wasn’t a top concern when it came to horny teens having sex. We were young and sex was still this exciting and profound novelty… Basically our mindset was: fuck doors and walls- if we’re sharing a room together on prom night, doing it under the blankets is good enough privacy for us.

The next day, my First and I got in a huge fight about something stupid. I saw it as an opportunity to end the ridiculousness and sent him home. As I watched his stupid loud obnoxious car drive away, I could hear a gospel church choir singing Hallelujah in my head. It was a defining moment in my life-a moment I’ll never forget. I was about to embark on a revolutionary chapter in my life. I was single, no longer a virgin, and ready to freaking mingle.

For the rest of that weekend I met boys left and right, no strings attached. That’s when I knew that if being single was this fun in Sleazeside, and then it was going to be one hell of a party in college.

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The Tale of a Two-Timing Frat Boy


For some incredibly odd reason I have met most of my serious flings on Halloween, and I only first realized this phenomenon while writing my book. The beginning of this Halloween tradition started my freshmen year of college, at a huge Halloween party off campus and near the beautiful beach. That year, my creativity in a Halloween costume was lacking; I was a sexy leopard. Yup, a sexy fucking leopard. I wore sexy leopard print lingerie from Victoria’s Secret, a headband with cat ears, and an awkward detachable tail, booty shorts that barely covered my ass cheeks, along with some ankle-breaking high heels. Throughout the night I received a number of questions regarding my choice in costume, and not once was I able to give a legitimate answer. After all, I didn’t really understand my costume either.

For most of the night, I was eyeing a really cute guy in a banana suit. He finally came up to me and we actually hit it off. Then the banana went to get us some drinks, and disappeared for a good half hour.  It was GAME OVER when I found him passed out over the toilet later that night. I wasn’t interested in mingling, since the night was almost over, and the majority of the guys were about to end up like the banana praying to the porcelain God. So, I made my way to the lethal Jungle Juice and joined the rest of the party’s level of intoxication. While I was pouring my second cup, this guy with a ghetto bandana wrapped around his forehead and a Tupac shirt approached me.

“Hey, care to share the wealth,” he said.

“My bad, I was just trying to catch up with the rest of the party.”

“Catch up?”

“Yah, you know… Level of drunkenness,” I said, gulping the red beverage as fast as my throat would allow me.

“Got ya. Well, good luck, you’re about 2 more cups away from it.”

“Sweet,” I said, grabbing the ladle from his hand.

“By the way I’m________,” he said, “and you are?”

“I’m Briana, or Bree. Bree is easier to remember because it rhymes with pee.”

This is a line that my friends have always teased me about since I say it almost every time I meet someone when I’m drunken; However, I’m the one laughing in the end… no one has ever forgotten my name.

“Bree and pee. Yes, it does rhyme, and that’s something you should be very proud of since every time people see you, they’ll think of pee.” This guy was a smart ass and I kind of liked it. He was also pretty cute and tad nerdy, which I found sexy.

“So, how you getting home?”

“My friends D.D. tonight because she’s on antibiotics and can’t drink. Do you need a ride?”

“YES! That would be amazing! My ride is currently passed out over the toilet.”

His ride turned out to be the drunken banana… Yeah, it’s funny how fate works.

For the remainder of the night we talked and talked, and hit it off. He informed me that he was pledging in a fraternity. That was when he attained the name “Frat Boy” in my phonebook. I was excited to dive into my first “frat boy fling.”

Frat Boy and I hung out for the next couple of days. I wasn’t sure what Frat Boy’s intentions were, but it seemed like he was more interested in me than I was in him. After all, I had a single girl mindset; I was looking for a no-strings-attached deal. There was something empowering about having the upper hand in this situation. Then one fine evening, I received a phone call from Frat Boy, asking me to come over to his dorm and watch some movies with him (we all know what “watching movies” really means).

Because it was in a small dorm room, there was no other place to sit, but in his bed with him. And so, we snuggled, which then led to some lip-locking, which then led to some touching and feeling and groping, which then led to some other things. The more time I spent with this guy, the more I was beginning to really like him. Later that afternoon, I finally left our cycle of sexy time and snuggling, and on the two minute walk back to my dorm, there was only one thing on my mind: was my single life going to be cut short for a Frat Boy. Could this be?

The next week, Frat Boy invited me to a house party on top of campus. His several texts and phone calls convinced me that this kid really liked me. It was the first time I felt that I had a guy wrapped very tightly around my finger. So, I rounded up my girls and we hiked to this party on top of campus.

Turns out it wasn’t a rager, but there was definitely a fun and diverse group of stoners. The entire house was so thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke, it created somewhat of a creepy mysterious effect, and the smell of sour beer made it difficult to gulp down a fresh one. It seemed physically impossible to stay inside that house for more than one hour at a time, because you would either pass out from excessive smoke inhalation or choke on your own vomit from the putrid smell. Frat Boy was on beer-run and would be at the party soon, so I decided to get some fresh air and have a cigarette in the meantime.

Outside on the deck, there was another girl who seemed to have the same plan that I did. She was pretty with dirty blonde hair, shocking blue eyes, and flawless porcelain skin. I’m no lesbian, but the girl was seriously breathtaking, thus I was confused to why there wasn’t a mob of guys sexually harassing her. Maybe she was a complete bitch? Or maybe she has one of those annoying voices, which has the ability to make all penises flaccid and timid. I felt obligated to find out this girl’s deal.

“Is it just me, or is it really hard to breathe in there?” I asked.

“Oh my God, it’s ridiculous in there, I should have invested in a gas mask before this thing,” she replied, in a completely normal voice. I didn’t get it, she seemed funny and really sweet… and that’s something I wouldn’t normally say right away because I’m usually a skeptic of the idea that pretty girls can be genuine and nice.

“Seriously, right? It’s terrible. I’m Bree, by the way.”

“I’m Cara, nice to meet you,” she said smiling and appreciative to the fact that I wasn’t just another bitchy girl at the party.

We ended up having so much in common, and had the same random sense of humor. Cara was one of those rare girls who was completely nonjudgmental towards other girls, and had the potential for being a really good friend. After exchanging a few crazy party stories, and sucking down two more cigarettes, I felt Cara and I truly bonded.

“So, my friend isn’t here yet, and I don’t really know anyone else. Would you want to come with me to the bathroom, I’m going to touch-up my makeup,” she said.

Asking me to go to the bathroom with her was basically girl code for: I really like you, let’s be friends. So I accompanied her in the bathroom and saw it as an opportunity to fix myself up for Frat Boy, too.
“This is going to sound really dumb,” she said, “but I’ve got like butterflies right now. I really like the guy who invited me. He’s super hot and sexy, and just last night, we had the most A-MAZING sex. We’re definitely going to need a repeat of that tonight.”

“Geez girl, go get em’! It’s funny… I sort of have the same situation going on. This guy invited me, and at first, I wasn’t crazy about him, but he has really grown on me, and I think I’m actually starting to like him. The sex is awesome, he’s so cute and smart, and I don’t know… I wasn’t expecting to start anything with anyone my freshman year. But, this guy has potential,” I said.

“Aw, that’s so exciting, Hun! I don’t think I’d date my guy… this is my freshman year and I’m just looking for meaningless sex, you know? Good, meaningless, sex,” she said.
“Amen to that sister. Well, I’ll be cheering you on tonight.”

Just as we were about to leave the bathroom, I asked Cara what her boy toy’s name was, and she responded, “His name is __________,” (A.K.A. FRAT BOY). Suddenly, it felt like my heart disconnected itself and fell to my feet and my entire body was made of J-E-L-L-O. I decided not to tell Cara that we shared the same boy toy just yet. I wanted to see if Frat Boy would make moves on her or on me. And then I planned on telling my new girly friend the whole situation. Ultimately, I was hoping that this two-timing douche bag’s scheme would blow up in his face.

Immediately, I ran over to my other girlfriends and filled them in on my ordeal. My friend Stephanie was especially outraged; she tends to be my protective mother bear in these types of situations. While I was grabbing a beer out of our stash, suddenly I heard yelling and cussing from the other side of the room. I turned around to see my drunken mother bear, Stephanie, screaming at Frat Boy.

“You know what you are? You are the filthiest scum of the earth. You’re disgusting! Absolutely repulsive! How could you play my best friend like that? She is a kind, beautiful, human being! How do you live with yourself?” (I know, a little dramatic, but that’s why I love her).

Frat Boy looked terrified and utterly confused. Nearby, was Cara, who also looked horrified and in shock. At that point, all I wanted to do was dig a hole in ground, crawl into it, and die. My plan took a sudden detour into a pit of raging fire. Shit.

Cara started walking over to me. Shit! I was more than tempted to just dart out of there and run all the way back to my dorm to never be seen on upper campus again; but I knew I had some responsibility to fill the girl in. Besides, we had just become good friends an hour ago.

“I’m really, really confused,” she said, “Isn’t that your friend? What is she talking about?”

“Okay, I was going to tell you at first, but I was in shock when you said his name. Basically, we have the same boy toy. For some very odd reason, he invited us both, even though he has been playing us both.” She started laughing and suddenly I was confused. Why the hell was she laughing about it?

“I don’t care,” she said, “I told you, I’m in it for the meaningless sex. It really doesn’t bother me. I wasn’t expecting him to be faithful to me.”

Umm, I didn’t know whether to be impressed by indifferent attitude, or to be weirded out by it.

“The question is, do YOU like him more than just a friend with benefits?” she asked.

“You know what? Actually, I don’t. Not anymore at least,” I said, laughing at how easy that decision was.

“Then let’s turn this whole thing around on him, and weird him out,” she said.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Let’s be buddy-buddy all night; we’ll act like we don’t care that he just ‘played’ us, and we’ll flirt together with him. He won’t be able to handle it. You know him, he’ll get overwhelmed,” she explained.

All right, this girl was brilliant. She signed us up for a game of beer pong, so that we could put on a show for Frat Boy, and hopefully confuse the fuck out of him. While we were arranging the red solo cups, I felt a tap on my shoulder- it was Frat Boy.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

I followed Frat Boy outside onto the deck. Strangely enough, he didn’t have a look of guilt or embarrassment on his face; instead, it seemed flattered by the drama of two girls “fighting” over him. Yet, Frat Boy did put on this whole act, as though he wasn’t really the bad guy, and actually felt bad about everything that just went down. He took an overly dramatic deep breath and looked past me like he was about to tell me something that would change my life.

“So your friend is pretty intimidating- not going to lie… but look, I’m really sorry you feel that I played you, but I thought we were just hook-up buddies, nothing serious. The way I see it- I’m a freshman in college, I’m not looking for a relationship right now…So I definitely don’t want to feel committed and tied down to one girl, you know what I mean? And, I thought I made it clear that we weren’t going to be anything serious, did I not?”

“Actually you weren’t too clear. I’m sorry that my friend blew up at you like that-she’s just very protective of me. To be honest, I’m not mad, sad, or upset, but I guess I was just confused. I thought you thought of me as more than a friend. . But now I understand, and I’m okay with it. No hurt feelings, I promise,” I said.

Frat Boy seemed a bit shocked that I was handling this so well. In a way, he looked disappointed that I didn’t want to put up a fight for him. It was true though- I really didn’t care. I was kind of relieved that I found out he was a dirt bag before I got really hooked on him.

“Well, you never know- I mean, maybe someday we might be something more than friends. I can see us having a relationship in the future… I guess what I’m trying to say is never say never. I do like you, Bree. You’re really a chill girl, really,” he said.

As if the kid stood a chance with me ever again. HA-HA-HA, yeah right!

“Yeah, maybe. But look, I’m totally fine if you hook up with Cara, she’s a great girl. We actually just became friends like an hour ago. Anyways, like I said, no hurt feelings. We’re good! I’m okay with being just friends. Now if you will excuse me, I have a game of pong to lose,” I said trying to reduce the agonizing awkwardness.

“Hah, okay, I’m glad we cleared all this up, babe. Go have fun tonight, “ he said, opening his arms for a hug.

I’m really not a fan of hugging douche bags, so I satisfied his embrace with the kind of hug you give a dirty drunk old man at a bar… just to be nice so he’ll leave you alone.

I went back inside and saw Cara sipping a bottle of rum (she was definitely my type of girl). When she saw me, she did a slow-motion jog over, squeezing me into her embrace.

“Is everything okay? Did you clear things up with him?” she whispered into my ear.

“Yes, everything is now crystal clear, we’re good.”

“Okay good! You didn’t tell him our plan, did you?”

“Nope! Operation ‘Weirding Out The Douche bag’ starts now,” I said in a vengeful tone.

Cara and I played beer pong against two kids that looked like a Caucasian version of Cheech and Chong. Frat Boy sat down on a couch facing the table. I took a few swigs of the rum and it was GAME ON! The two of us became a PG-13 version of Girls Gone Wild. We were all over each other, constantly hugging, arms linked, and kissing each other on the cheek. We both gave Frat Boy some stares that suggested we we’re a team and not enemies. Sucka!

Cheech and Chong got a free show and made some courageous attempts to flirt with Cara and I… But, we were focused on seeking some revenge on one particular audience member, who was still seated on the couch, appearing to be incredibly ill at ease. Not only was my partner in crime and I victorious in our game of beer pong, but we had also accomplished our mission of vengeance. Frat Boy was so uncomfortable that he actually got up and left the party. Mission accomplished.

That night, I didn’t get mad, I didn’t get even, but I did do the unexpected. It’s rare to have the opportunity to team up with the “other girl,” or the other victim. It was sort of an empowering experience being the stronger one and gaining complete control of the situation. Nothing went according to Frat Boy’s Plan A (going home with one girl that night), or Plan B (having two girls fight over him). Instead, he went home alone, confused, and hopefully a little wiser from the mistakes he made. That night, I gained a friend and lost a two-timing frat boy… They say: “you win some, you lose some,” but I think I won either way.

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Over the weekend, I had a revelation while I was with my boyfriend. It’s something I’ve done before in this relationship and in past relationships. It’s something that many women, and some men, are guilty of in relationships… And most of the time, we rather not admit to it. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m talking about Bitching Without a Cause/Bitch Without a Cause (BWC); instigating unnecessary drama in your relationship by starting a fight for no good reason. You may be thinking: what the hell kind of ridiculous nonsense is this girl talking about?  I hate drama and I would never start a fight for no reason with my boyfriend/girlfriend, or anyone for that matter.

Well, when I came to this revelation, I was pretty effing shocked myself. I thought I was the kind of person that tries to avoid drama as much as possible. I hate confrontation and I consider myself a very easygoing and tolerant person. That’s not to say I can’t be intentionally bitchy… because I definitely can; however, it’s usually for an extremely good reason… It takes a lot to really piss me off. This proves that you don’t have to be a bitchy person to be at fault of BWC.

Before I continue, it’s important to note that there is a fine line between BWC (irrationally pulling the bitch-card OCCASIONALLY) and just being a plain ole bitch (bitching senselessly ALL THE TIME). If you’re bitching all the time- well, that’s a whole other issue.

From my own experience, I went through four phases of BWC.

It all started when I went to visit my boyfriend in New England for the weekend. It’s important to mention that we just had our one-year anniversary a couple months ago, and everything is going really great; it seems like we’re in the Golden Age of our relationship.

Anyways, on our way to dinner, he was kind of quiet and playing on his phone. I could see he was tired after a long day of work and wasn’t feeling real chatty per say. Usually I would just let him be and give him peace, as an understanding girlfriend would. But for some reason I didn’t leave him be, even though I understood the legitimate reason to why he was the he was.

(1) Dropping the Bombinstigating the pointless drama with the first bitchy comment.

“Babe, I came all the way to visit and spend the weekend with, and you’re on your phone all quiet like I’m not even here. It’s just really rude,” I said.

A part of me knew I was being ridiculous and that bitching him out over something so trivial was obviously wrong and stupid. But I didn’t stop… for some reason I kept going. I didn’t just blow the situation out of proportion- I atomic-bombed it.

“I’m just really tired, babe. I’m not really in a talkative mood.”

(2) The Guilt-Tripmaking the good guy look like the asshole in the situation.

“Well, I’m tired, too, but I still came all the way to see you… We only have a couple of days together before I go away for two weeks. I’ve missed you this past week… All I’ve wanted to do is be with you. Listen, if you’re that tired, I’ll just go home to New York-… It’s okay, really,” I said.

“No I don’t want you to go. I told you, I’m just tired. I’m just not talkative at this very moment in time. I’ll feel better and I’ll have more energy once I get some food in me. Why are making such a big deal? You know that I’m happy you’re here, Babe. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week,” he said.

(3) The Wake-up– that moment you realize you’re not making any effing sense- you’re just being a complete bitch.

“I just- I don’t know… I thought you’d be more excited to see me, I guess. I know you’re tired… I- I don’t know,” I said.

(4) The Apology- taking responsibility/ finding a lame excuse for BWC.

“I’m sorry babe. I guess I have a lot on my mind right now. I’m tired, too. Let’s just have a good weekend,” I said

This wasn’t my worst case of BWC. I’ll admit that I’ve gone overboard. Once, I tried using every wrongdoing of my boyfriend in my arguments (Bitch Ammo), to the point where I completely forgot why I was fighting him in the first place.

So, why do we Bitch Without a Cause? Why do anti-drama queens suddenly act like they have a Black Belt in bitching? I think there are various reasons for BWC, and I still need to give it a lot more thought before I develop my overall theory.

Here is what I have been able to understand about my own BWC experience, which I think might be a very common cause of this behavior:

Like many of you, I’ve been in some pretty crappy relationships and had some traumatizing dating experiences in my day. Undoubtedly, the shitty past has given me numerous insecurities when it comes to being in a relationship. Maybe it’s me being cautious, a way to protect my already beaten-up heart; Regardless, it’s insecurity.  Since my boyfriend and I have reached such an amazing point in our relationship, the cautious/insecure part of me sees it as too good to be true- or maybe that it’s just all untrue. Anyways, I believe I let my own insecurities get the best of me, and used a fight to test my boyfriend and his love for me. Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to hurt him before he hurts me, or to prove my strength and equal power in the relationship. I’m still exploring this concept and don’t want to draw any conclusions just yet.

Sure we’re only human; we all have a little bitchy in us. We might BWC out of curiosity. We might do it to get it out of our system. We might even BWC just because we’re bored in the relationship and feel a need to stir things up a bit. Some guys actually like to see the bitchy side of their girlfriends once in a long while; they like the challenge. But for those who BWC like me, we might need to find a healthier alternative when it comes to dealing with those insecurities rather than using our boyfriends as the “punching bag.”

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Are you Batman or Robin in the Relationship?


He was smart, witty, charming, ridiculously friendly, wildly funny, and a genuine human being. He was everyone’s best buddy. He was the guy everyone wanted at their party because he was always the life of the party. This guy never had a socially awkward moment in his life because he always knew the perfect thing to say to avoid them. He had the best jokes, the best stories, and even had his own hilarious terminology. Not to mention, he was the greatest conversationalist that ever lived. He would talk to anyone that listened, including random strangers- and they loved every minute of him. He was also deep and wise and incredibly inspiring when he wanted to be. Everyone and their mother loved this guy. Oh, and a few years ago, this guy just so happened to be my boyfriend.

My description above is exactly why I fell hard and fast for this guy. The minute I met him, I wanted him to put a ring on my finger. Honestly, I thought I hit the jackpot.

Here’s the thing: I happen to be a very outgoing person myself. I love being the center of attention in a social scene, the leading star in the show. But, in this relationship, my boyfriend was Batman and I was his sidekick Robin.

For the sake of protecting his identity, let’s call my ex Bruce Wayne, which is Batman’s real name… In case you’re wondering, I grew up with a older brother who was a huge comic book nerd. I’ll admit I happen to know way too much about superheroes.

Many girls believe that meeting the boyfriend’s parents is a big deal because we want to make the best impression and get their approval. Yet, I think meeting the boyfriend’s friends is an even bigger deal since many guys value their bro’s approval- sometimes more than their parent’s approval. Also, you hang out with the bros more than the parents, so good relations between the boyfriend’s friends and the girlfriend are super duper important.

This is why I was beyond thrilled when I got Bruce’s friends’ approval. But then again, it seemed like they would approve of me regardless just because of the fact I was dating their favorite friend. It was like they all came to this agreement: Any girl Bruce loves, we love too. Nonetheless, I loved that everyone loved Bruce. I loved being the girlfriend of such an awesome dude.

One summer night, we went to his friend’s house for beers and a bonfire. It was one of many parties we had gone to while dating, and it always went down the same way every time. Basically, as soon as we got to the party, we were surrounded by all of Bruce’s friends/ loyal and crazed fans, anxiously awaiting Bruce to say something funny and entertain for the night.  At the party, it felt like we were being introduced as: “Here’s Bruce and his sidekick Bree.” That night it really hit me… I was the Robin in our relationship, and Bruce was none other than the honorable and kick-ass Batman.

I sat there that night, and saw that all eyes were always on Bruce, and Bruce didn’t hate the spotlight- not one bit. In fact, he basked in it like a huge attention-whore. It’s not that I felt jealous or anything, but I definitely felt invisible, unimportant. I also noticed that Bruce was so busy entertaining and being the awesome guy at the party that he forgot all about me. Suddenly, I was just another person in the audience.

After the party, I loved how he asked: “Babe, how come you were so quiet all night?”

“Maybe it’s because I couldn’t get an effing word in with you talking up a storm and entertaining your loving fans,” is what I wanted to say.

“I don’t know. I talked to Joe’s girlfriend a lot,” is what I really said/lied.

“Well my friends love you, babe. Danny was even saying how awesome you are tonight,” he said.

“That’s bullshit, you’re friends don’t love me. They love you. You’re Batman, everyone loves Batman. I’m not awesome- I’m Robin. And no one cares for the awkward small sidekick in ridiculous tights,” is what I wanted to say.

“Aw they’re all great. That’s sweet of Danny,” is what I really said.

I didn’t let the whole Batman and Robin issue get to me too much. After all, what was I going to say-“Babe stop being Batman and hogging the spotlight all the time”? I loved the guy and I was really his number one fan… so I decided to just let it go.

But then, we hung out with my group of friends (my fan club) and once again he became the star- the star of MY show.

I was going to confront him about it, but then I realized how ridiculously silly I was being. He wasn’t intentionally trying to steal my spotlight or belittle me in front of my friends. It’s not his fault that he’s an outgoing, funny, and charming guy. It’s not his fault that he was truly a cool dude.

Eventually, I embraced being the “dynamic duo;” however, I no longer saw myself as the sidekick Robin, but rather as the other Batman. We were a great a couple and learned how to share the spotlight. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out with Bruce for many different reasons, which I will share later in the future.

Anyways, I learned that when you’re a couple, there doesn’t always have to be the superhero and his/her sidekick. It is possible to have two awesome leading superheroes in a relationship, and together form an incredibly kick-ass and unstoppable force.

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I Didn’t Know Romeo was Russian


It was a boring winter night during my senior year of college, and my roommates and I decided to go to the local bar and look for some man action. It happened to be “Sangria Sunday” (my favorite).

While I was waiting for the bartender to refill my second pitcher of Sangria, these three guys sat down next to me. The one closest to me was wearing sunglasses… By the way, it was 10:00 pm, inside of a dark bar, and obviously there was no sunshine in sight. This guy kept pushing his shades down, smiling like a pervert, and looked me up and down. He was just staring at me and I’ve never been a fan of guys who blatantly creep.  When I reached the point of being unbearably creeped-out, I finally turned to him

“Can I help you?” I asked in the bitchiest tone I’ve ever had.

“You are vedy bootiful,” he said. He sounded foreign and suddenly the sunglasses at night made sense.

“Thanks… you have an accent, where are you from?”

“Russia.” Score.

“Oh nice, what brings you to New England?”

“Fishing. I’m starting new life here.”

“Nice, well, I’m Briana, by the way.” He grabbed my hand with both of his and kissed it.

I love foreigners, they’re such corny romantics, but it’s absolutely adorable.

“Briana, I am _____. What are you doing tonight? I’m here with my friends. They are American except for one on end. He Irish.”

The Russian was definitely not a bad looker; he had a pretty face with a strong jaw line, he was tall, and pretty muscular. Most of all, his accent turned me on. His friends, on the other hand, were not what most would consider to be “sexy” per say. Yet, I knew if my friends were drunk enough, they would totally be up to hanging out with them… maybe even suck face with one of them.

“I’m here with my friends, maybe we could all hang out after the bar later.”

“Yes, we would like it a lot, to do that,” he said.

We exchanged numbers and I didn’t think the Russian would call, but he did exactly 15 minutes after the bar closed. My roommates and I had some friends over to continue our drunken fun, and when the Russian and his flock walked in, the room went completely silent.

“Ehlow ehvarray buddy, my name is ______ and these are friends of mine”

Once the Russian accent was revealed, everyone welcomed them with open arms. Apparently drunk and stoned college kids get really excited when they meet people with foreign accents…for them it’s thrilling- like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs or something.

Later, the Russian invited me back to his place to hang out with him and some friends… and I accepted. My non-American buddies and I stayed up late, drinking vodka (of course), and talking about our different cultures. The last thing I remember from that night was saying goodnight to the Irish guy, and plopping onto the couch with the Russian.

I woke up the next morning, in my underwear, with the Russian spooning with me. Uh oh. I sprung up from the couch in a panic to find some kind of clothing I could cover up with. The Russian calmly handed me my surprisingly neatly folded clothes. He then grabbed a blanket, held it up in front of me like a curtain and looked away like a true gentleman.  I was confused, embarrassed, and hung-over, but I must say, I was quite charmed by the Russian’s good manners.

The Russian sat in the backseat holding me, while his awkward Pauly D-esque roommate drove me home. “Pauly D” was quiet the whole ride back, but as soon as I was about to get out of the car, he managed to blurt out, “So, what was it like to sleep with a Russian? It sounded like you had a REALLY good time.”

The inappropriate comment made me turn red in the face, and although the Russian was genuinely a really great guy, I still felt like pretty dirty about the whole thing. The Russian ignored the comment and walked me to my front door. Yes, this guy escorted me on my “walk of shame.” What a gentleman! He kissed me passionately on the lips and then gently on the forehead. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like a typical morning after a one-night-stand. Maybe this wasn’t a one-night-stand after all?

For the next month, the Russian and I kept in touch via texting. I always got excited when I received a text from him. Here are some actual texts (word-for-word) from him, and you’ll see what I mean:

Hi, beauty, where are you tonight? Today was my Russian friend birthday, I just get back to my house, need only you for perfect weekend.

Honey, I crashed my Mercedes and my Russians gone to their houses. I have day off for next few days. All what I need its only you.


Hi, Briana, I’m good, was last couple weeks in Boston, cant meet you, but want to see such desirable woman. . How about you? What are you doing? Me and my Russians friends right now in Boston Russian bathhouse. I want to take you with me next time. You will like Boston, a lot of vodka.


Briana, Happy Birthday! Wish you the best, the world is yours! You very beautiful. I very want to be there, just can’t- have work tomorrow. Kiss you baby, sorry.


Sweetheart, you always perfect. Happy Valentine baby!

I’m not sure if it was his terrible grammar, misuse of English terms, the unbelievably corny expressions, or the fact that he wanted to take me out on a date to a Russian bathhouse- there was something weirdly adorable and attractive about this guy. He was obviously different from any American guy I’ve ever been involved with… and after some pretty traumatic dating experiences with American guys, I didn’t hate the idea of a Russian romance. In fact, he was a breath of fresh air.

It was one of those Friday nights I decided to take it easy. I had planned on doing laundry, wearing my ugly comfortable pajamas, and catching up on my TiVo-recorded Gossip Girl episodes, while indulging in some Ben and Jerry’s Fish Food, and working on the latest People magazine crossword puzzle. I realized I was running low on the ice cream and decided to run over to the nearest 24-hour convenience store to stock up. Since I wasn’t planning on communicating with the world that night, I left my phone in my car, while I ran into the store. When I returned, I had 10 missed calls and 5 voicemails from my roommates and the Russian. That’s when I knew obviously something shitty had happened.

Voicemail from my roommate: BREE! I don’t know where you are, but your Russian is outside blasting European techno and calling your name. I’m trying to sleep and I’m about to kill this motherfucker. GET. HOME. NOW!


Voicemail from the Russian: Briana, my sweet, vedy sweet American friend. In you neighborhood and need to see you right way. Call me. I miss you my sweet.


Voicemail from my other Roommate: Bree, seriously? The Russian is here for the second time. Please get home and take care of this. We all needed a good night sleep tonight and the Russian is ruining everything. Bye.

Immediately I called the Russian, completely mortified of what had just gone down.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“BRIANA! My beauty! Where you be? I just went to your house and you not home?”

“Yes, I know. I’ll be home soon. But please, just knock on the door and try to be quiet.”

“You got it babe.”

Shortly after I got home, the Russian tiptoed into my house. He was wearing tight white jeans, a white Harvard t-shirt, and once again, he was wearing sunglasses at night. We went up to my room and start snuggling. He kept stroking my hair and was trying to whisper sweet nothings into my ear in English… except it sounded like Russian mumbo jumbo.



“You are not like all American girl I meet.”

“Oh yeah? How so, Russian?”

“You are very smart and different. I like you a lot. You are my favorite of American girl.”

“I like you, too, Russian. Thank you. And you’re my favorite Russian.”

He smiled and held me tighter in his big strong arms.

Every girl dreams of a guy pulling the “Romeo.” You know what I’m talking about! When a guy spontaneously throws pebbles gently at your window, and you would either walk out onto your balcony or just simply open your window, as your Romeo professes his love for you. I’m pretty sure this is a fantasy we’ve all shared at one time or another, and almost never happens. Believe it or not, there was one guy who attempted the “Romeo;” except my Romeo wasn’t Italian, but he was Russian, and instead of professing his love, he blasted Russian techno, woke up the neighborhood, drunkenly screaming my name in his heavy Russian accent… Meanwhile Juliet wasn’t even home.

The Russian and I kept in touch. Time and again, we would meet up and have fun together (wink wink). I liked the Russian, but then again I didn’t think he would be any more than just a friendly hook-up. Yeah, it turns out, I was pretty wrong about that… You will see what I mean… later on.

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“Sure, he treats me like crap… but aside from that, he’s a really great guy.”


The other day, I met up with a good friend at Starbuck’s, and as we shamelessly sipped our ice caramel macchiatos, she told me about this guy she has been seeing for just a couple of months. Not too long ago, my friend was completely heart broken and utterly depressed, after ending a five-year relationship with a guy she thought was “the one.”  He ended up cheating on her with her old roommate… Gross, I know. It was a complete shocker to everyone since he seemed like a really good guy. Not mention, my good friend happens to be a total knockout- I mean, she has the whole package, and any guy would be crazy to cheat on her. Anyways, I was thrilled to hear she was finally moving on and seeing other guys. But then, she started explaining her new fling to me… Unfortunately, it sounded like she moved on from one asshole and onto another asshole.

Here are some of the things she said about this guy:

“He’s really cocky, which I’m not crazy about… and sometimes he’s can be rude, but I just laugh it off.”

“Many people think he’s a total jerk, but they just need to get to know him.”

“He put me down in front of his friends, but he’s like a totally different guy when we’re alone. I know he’s really not a jerk like that… He just tries to show off in front of his friends.”

… Okay, so now you can see why my douchebag-detector went off like crazy.

I just couldn’t understand it! My good friend is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous and she’s one of the sweetest and most wonderful people I’ve ever met. It’s not like she’s dumb either… In fact, she’s incredibly smart, a grad student with a bright future ahead of her. So why was she doing such a stupid thing by getting involved with an obvious jerk?

But then again, who am I to say anything? I’ve been guilty of getting involved with assholes, and being in denial that they were in fact terrible guys. Actually, I’ve been guilty of this crime – not once, not twice, but more times than I’m willing to admit. And I know my good friend and I are not alone… There are many, many girls who go for the assholes and are somehow willing to put up with all the bullshit that comes with it. It’s become somewhat of an epidemic, and it’s a topic I need to address right here, right now.

I would like to carefully point out that this does not apply to all females. I mean there are many women who refuse to put up with the least bit of bullshit, and I would like to applaud them because they are wise and the rest of us can learn a thing or two from them. But for the women who do put up with these guys, I’d like to share some insight on the subject… After all, like I said, I do have a history of being a serial asshole-dater.

So, why do we do it? Why do we find all these excuses for their bad behavior? Why do we go for these guys in first place- is it because nice guys aren’t as fun? Here are just a couple of important points in my theory:

 “Hard to Please”

These guys portray a form of “hard to get” behavior that many girls tend to be drawn to. Instead of acting all “hard to get,” they act all “hard to please,” and they do this by treating us like crap. It’s hard to please them, excite them, etc, so we go over and beyond to make them happy and get their approval of us. Psychology is the dangerous weapon they use to lock us into the relationship and take control. They basically take advantage of our vulnerability in the relationship so they can get what they want. Sounds like an asshole-thing to do, right? Well, that’s because they are A-holes!

“Beauty and the Beast Syndrome”

I’ve heard many girls, including myself, say: “I think I can change him and make him a better person.”

Why is it that we suddenly feel it is our god-given responsibility to help improve these assholes to become better human beings? For some reason, we believe that we can ultimately change them into soft romantic gentlemen. Ladies, it’s not our fault that our maternal/ caretaker instinct comes into play. We have this natural compassion that drives us to help the uncompassionate. Yes, we can’t help but to believe that we are capable of achieving such a difficult task. It’s what I like to call “Beauty and the Beast Syndrome;” the romantic idea that we could be like Belle and teach compassion and love to a big tough ferocious beast.

If you read my previous blog about Disney, you know how mad I am at them for providing unrealistic ideas of romance, love, and relationships. In real life, there aren’t any talking teapots and candlesticks, and most of the time-not all the time- but most of the time we can’t use song and dance to transform our terrible beast into prince charming. There are many beasts out there that will always be beasts. I’m not saying it’s impossible to soften and infect them with more empathy. It has been done- I’m sure. But what I am saying is that trying to transform a ferocious beast can be difficult and it can be dangerous; it’s just not worth it if it’s detrimental to yourself. Even if you think he’s a good guy deep down, you have to consider the fact that he is an asshole on the surface. That means you’ll have to deal with the asshole more than you’ll deal with the nice guy hidden inside.

Anyways, I will tell you what I told my best friend… Every girl deserves a GREAT guy, one that respects her, that’s loving, affectionate, honest, loyal and romantic. Basically, we all deserve a guy who will treat us like the incredible and beautiful women that we are.  Why should we spend so much time and effort trying to transform these beasts into our ideal man when we can just find someone who doesn’t require any alterations because he’s already our ideal man?

There is one final thought I must share regarding this topic…

After I gave my anti-asshole speech, my good friend said this: “Bree, I don’t know what it is… I guess I just like the “bad boy” type.”

Okay, there is a common misunderstanding of the “bad boy” type. The “bad boy” type is sexy; they have tattoos, piercings, ride motorcycles, and may have had a few innocent bar fights in their day. Yet, when it comes to these tough guys and their women, they are a big mushy pile of love. The “bad boy” type should not be confused with the bad guys who treat women like crap- those guys are just assholes.

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The Guy With No Baggage… But He Did Have a Lesbian Carry-on

For most of my junior year of college, I had meaningless fling after meaningless fling. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t relationship-hungry. And then I met “Mr. Perfect”… or so I thought.

I first spotted Mr. Perfect (Mr. P) at a Halloween party. He was a construction guy (the sexiest construction guy I had ever seen) and I was a firefighter (a sexy firefighter). The whole night I couldn’t stop staring at him. And who could blame me? He had on this tight white tank, which clung to his washboard abs, and had a pair of big mouthwatering biceps. Not to mention, he had a tool belt wrapped around his waist. I don’t know about you, but there’s something about a guy wearing a tool belt that really turns me on. Besides his ridiculous good looks, I also noticed there was a petite black hair beauty dressed as a sexy devil (truth) following him around all night. I figured it was his girlfriend, so I just continued creeping from a distance.

A bunch of my guy friends soon surrounded me in an attempt to flirt and trade the “friend card” for a “one-night-stand card.” It wasn’t happening. Suddenly Mr. P joined the flirting party. Immediately I stood up straight, propped out my chest, and sucked in my tummy full of beer, which has become somewhat of an involuntary response my body has when hot guys approach. My guy friends were talking about my tatas of course, which was a topic I had grown rather tired of. They were all saying how they thought my “girls” were fake, with the hope that I would let them cop a feel to prove them wrong. Unfortunately for them, I knew the trick all too well and their mission failed.

“I think they’re real. I believe her,” Mr. P said.

“Thank you, I appreciate your support,” I said.

When I turned back, the guys had already disappeared into the crowds of drunken people.

“Do you live here?” Mr. P asked.

“No, my good friends do. Who do you know here?”

“Well, no one really. To be completely honest, my friends and I were walking through the neighborhood just looking for a party to go to, and this house seemed to be hopping. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“Nah, I’m glad you decided on this house.”

He reached into his tool belt, took out his iPhone, and handed it to me.

“Type your number in,” he said.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”


“Well, I don’t think that hot devil you’ve been with all night would appreciate that.”

“She’s just a friend, I promise.”

“Oh. Good. Well, in that case…”

I handed Mr. P the phone.

“And what should I store you as? Sexy firefighter?”

“Bree the sexy firefighter,” I said.

“Bree the sexy firefighter, I’m calling you now.”

“What can I store you as?”

“___________ the sexy version of Bob the Builder.”

For the rest of the party, Mr. P and I hung out. I also met the sexy devil following him around all night. When Mr. P was taking a leak, she took the opportunity to inform me that Mr. P and her once dated. The ex also told me that they were just friends now and didn’t feel anything more than that for each other. I don’t know if it was the way she said it, but something told me she wasn’t quite  over Mr. P yet.

Also, by the look on her face all night, I could tell that the ex wasn’t thrilled Mr. P and I were really hitting it off. I tried my best to get on her good side, and I guess my girl-to-girl charm seemed to work. For a little bit, at least.

That very night had a lifetime experience: I threw my first punch… and no, I didn’t hit Mr. Perfect’s ex. There happened to be a very drunk bitchy girl being nasty to people, acting like she owned the place, but she didn’t. The girls who owned the house happened to be my best friends. The drunken bitch made her way over to me and began running her mouth. I decided violence wasn’t the answer, since she was drunk and probably unaware of how stupid she was acting.

The girl kept spitting insults at everyone in the house, and my blood started to boil. Finally, her and her pathetic posse were almost out the door when the bitch got in my face and called me the forbidden four letter word no girl should ever, ever call another girl. It starts with a “C” and ends in a “T,” and it’s that word that can make a graceful young lady transform into the ferocious Hulk. It was the word that finally pushed me over the edge. Now, I have never believed in violence and I have never gotten in a physical fight with anyone before in my entire life. That night, my beliefs in anti-violence went out the window.

The girl was halfway out the door, when I grabbed her arm and flung her back in the house. At first, I thought I broke her arm because I’m pretty sure I heard a large crack, but it could have been my wishful imagination. When she landed in front of me, I became incredibly excited that I would finally have the opportunity to punch someone in the face (let’s be honest, everyone shares the dream of letting go and giving someone a knuckle sandwich at some point in their life). I drew my arm back and then with all my might I knocked the bitch in the mouth. And yes, there was blood. As soon as I punched her, I then realized I would have to keep fighting this crazy horse, so before she could even get up, I got the fuck out of there, and sought safety on the other side of the room.

The girl looked like a raging bull, with fire and fury in her eyes. My heart sunk when I knew she was going to charge and beat the crap out of me. But suddenly, the unexpected happened: Mr. P’s ex jumped in front of me like a protective mother bear and started attacking the bitch.  She went ape-shit, punching the girl on the head, ripping a huge chunk of her hair out, and stomping on her when she was down on the ground.

Mr. P saw the whole thing go down, and I thought I was going to look like the badass in the situation, but his ex stole my badass spotlight. Finally the fight got broken up and the ex walked away with a whole new kind of respect from everyone in the house. I, on the other hand, had a whole new stew of emotions; of course I was thankful for her to step in and have my back, yet I was scared shitless and didn’t know if I wanted to risk my face getting smashed if I pursued this guy.

Eventually Mr. P convinced me that his ex wouldn’t be hiding in the bushes and attack me if I came to his house. We started hanging out. A lot. We also decided to take things very slow since we really liked each other and we knew rushing sex would screw everything up. For an entire year, we hung out, watched movies, cuddled, and studied for exams together. We had amazing chemistry and had so much in common. It just seemed like this had potential for a serious relationship.

One day, he called me up and asked me out on a beach date. He told me to meet him at his house and we could walk to the beach together, since it was literally right down the street. He even offered to cook me dinner after our day at the beach. The date sounded like flawless romance.

The next day, I got to his house and walked in the front door since it was wide open. In the kitchen was a girl, wearing a bikini and jean shorts, stuffing a beach towel into her bag. She looked up.

“Hey, what’s up?” she said.

My mind was chaotic with confusion and racing with so many questions. I must have looked like I was hit in the head with a brick or in need of some psychiatric attention.

“Oh, hey. I’m good, how are you?” I said like an idiot.

“Good,” she said. “Except _______ is taking forever. You know him though.”

“Yah, “ I said, completely baffled as* to why she was concerned about him taking his time. I started studying the girl and something about her seemed too familiar. Where did I know her from? I heard her yell at Mr. P and suddenly it hit me. It’s the EX! Why is she here?!

I saw her go into the bedroom and slam some drawers. Why was she going through his roommate’s room? Then I started putting the puzzle pieces together: I never met his roommate but Mr. P told me that he lives with a girl. A lesbian. OH MY GOD! COULD HIS EX BE HIS LESBIAN ROOMMATE? AND WHY IS SHE COMING ON OUR “PERFECT DATE”? I felt the walls closing in on me. My stomach was turning into a pretzel and a cold sweat broke out on my face. All I wanted to do was make a run for it, but there was no escaping now.

On our-what felt like a century long- walk to the beach, I had never felt so frustrated, confused, and awkward at the same time. “The third wheel” took on a WHOLE new meaning for me. The two of them had conversations about their friends I didn’t know. They cracked several inside jokes. They even talked about when they dated and how jealous Mr. P always got when guys looked at her. I felt like I was on an episode of “Blind Date,” but I wasn’t on the date; they were. When we got to the beach, I knew I couldn’t leave since I had told him the day before that the realtor was showing my house all afternoon. So, I decided to make the best of it.

Before I even took off my beach cover-up I said, “I could really go for some cold beers right now. I think I’m going to run over to the liquor store.”

“I’ll go with you,” SHE said.

How the hell was I getting out of this one? Well, I wasn’t. The ex and I drove to the liquor store, struggling to make conversation. It was painfully awkward. Painfully. Anxious to get my lips on a much-needed stiff drink, I ran into the liquor store, bought an 18 pack of beer and a flask of vodka. Yes, it was 1:00 in the afternoon, and I’m certainly not an alcoholic, but drinking vodka on this early afternoon seemed like a great and necessary idea.

On the walk back, I whipped out the flask of vodka and said, “Got some vodka. I think I’m going to start working on this puppy now. I mean it is summer, so what the hell, right?”

She responded in a severely uncomfortable fake laugh. I took a couple of solid swigs and offered her some.

“Well, I don’t know. I have to work tonight,” she said.

“That’s the beauty of drinking early,” I explained, “so you can still function later in the night if you want to.”

Now, I’m not one to peer pressure, but I felt like this was the only way I could grab the reins of this situation and relieve it from the awkwardness. The peer pressure worked. She took the flask and took a couple of big swigs. By the time we got to the beach, we were loaded.

“Are you girls already drunk?” Mr. P asked. We both giggled like little schoolgirls.

Then, weirdest part of the whole day happened. I took off my beach dress and the ex was checking out my breasts in my revealing bathing suit.

“Dayamm, now I know what you were talking about. Those are REALLY NICE,” she said.

Wait, wait, wait just a minute! Let me get this straight: I’m on a date with this guy, his bisexual ex-girlfriend, and now she’s checking me out and hitting on me? Was I on Candid Camera? I’m not a hot celebrity, but was I getting Punk’d? Where was Ashton Kutcher at?  I don’t care how drunk she was or how drunk I was- it seemed a little out of line. Was she trying to make me feel uncomfortable? Did she decide to switch teams again and date Mr. P? Did she have some kind of master plan to get me out of the picture?

Recovering from the worsening situation, I began chugging beers, hoping this day would somehow find a way to rebound. After a half hour of baking under the sun and having a serious monologue of questions playing in my head, I heard giggling.

There she was with her perfect toned body, steel-iron abs, tan flawless skin, round bodacious booty, and long dark hair blowing in the breeze. She grabbed a football and took Mr. P by the hand. They didn’t bother inviting me, so I invited myself to their little game of throwing the football. Walking over to them, I started realizing how hard it is to walk on sand in a sexy way. It’s impossible.

The ex was practically a good yard down the beach, throwing the damn football like she was Joe Montana.

“Wow, she’s really good. I mean look how far she’s throwing,” I said, pretending to be impressed, but I was so jealous.

“Well yeah, but then again she’s a lesbian. Lesbians tend to be good at sports,” he said. Lesbian or bisexual? I’m confused.

It was at that moment, the questions came uncontrollably projectile vomiting out of my mouth.

“Isn’t she your ex-girlfriend, though?” and “She’s a lesbian?”

“Yeah, we used to date. But this year she decided to go the lesbian route. I mean, she had a serious girlfriend and everything. They even tried to have a surrogate child,” he said.

Okay, so now I’m thinking: and this is normal?

“Oh. Yeah, I was a little caught off guard when I saw her coming with us today, “ I said, loving the confidence from my liquid courage. Finally I was going to solve the mystery to this awkward and shocking date.

“Here,” he said, as he shoved the football at me. “Let’s see what that arm can do.”

Really? Like Really? He’s going to ignore that last comment? I took the football and realized I was about to make a complete and utter fool of myself. There’s no doubt about it- I looked like the evil, ditsy, princess, handling the football as though it was a diseased. With all my might, I threw the football as far as my arm knew how and it soon landed three feet in front of me. It’s not that I’m a ditsy girl- I’ve actually been pretty athletic most of my life, but football was never my cup of tea.

In the distance, I saw “miss quarterback” covering her mouth as she laughed out loud at my failures.

“Let me try again,” I said. “Can you just show me how to hold it?”

Mr. P stood right behind me, reached over my arm, and placed my hand along the seam of the football. Gently he took my arm and demonstrated a guided throw. As he repeated the demonstration again, I propped my chest out, and knew I had just scored some more attraction points. In the corner of my eye, I saw the “friend” grilling me. I knew the bitch was bisexual, or maybe the lesbian thing was just an act. I knew she still had feelings for Mr. P. I knew it. And now, it was game time.

Once more, I gained some momentum, stepped into my hard jolted throw…. And the ball went over her head. Mr. P started cheering, ran over and picked me up, celebrating my victorious throw. Five seconds later, the ex came over and complained her shoulder was “hurting.” She was done playing catch.

When the sun starting setting, I lied to Mr. P and said that I was going to have to skip dinner since my roommate’s parents were in town and really wanted to take us out. Mr. P was a great guy- it seemed like he had the whole package… yet, in that package, he also had a jealous bisexual girlfriend, which I was something I didn’t sign up for. I said goodbye that day, and I was pretty damn sure it was goodbye forever. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

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