SELFABSORBED.ME

Well folks...it's about that time...as I said before, change is in the air.

And yes, change can be scary...even good change can be scary...but sometimes you have to just close your eyes..plug your nose...and jump right into that ocean water and just hope you can swim...

So Ponderings is about to change.

I have been asked by a great blogger to become apart of a new site formatted along the idea of Gawker or Jezebel, a site where women post their blogs on the same page, so that you can not only read me..but other funny women as well....all on living, dating, and surviving as women in our 20's.

As of next week, when you go to log in to NYCPonderings you will AUTOMATICALLY BE FORWARDED TO THE NEW SITE!

Will I still be writing the same stuff?
Yes.

Will you still be able to read JUST NYCPonderings Chick's writings?
Yes.

How often will I post?
Three times a week.

What is the benefit to this?
For my readers to view other female writers and for the other writer's readers to be able to read my stuff...essentially if we all had 500 readers, we might now have 5000...to put in simplified terms.

Look for the label 'NYCPonderings Chick'..on the new site to read all my stuff...and I promise to post just as often if not more..and for it to be just as hilarious as always...and most important, I still plan on staying ridiculously good looking...

There is a plausible new idea out there ....the idea that women are funny...yes, women, funny...can you believe it? ...And this new site is going to prove that. Because it is the year of the female comedian. So I am going to go put my clown suit on and I plan to see you all next week, same time, same place, just different site....hope you all enjoy!

For any questions feel free to email me anytime at kim@nycponderings.com

-Kim (NYCPonderings Chick)

Some people have nightmares about the boggieman..or about falling off a ledge…or even someone chasing them around with an ax.

Want to know what my nightmare is?

That I wake up one morning and I am living in the middle of a suburb… nowhere near any city… married to a man who wears pleated khaki pants …and we have a gray minivan.





(Shudders)


I get the chills just thinking about it.


It is like everything I ever didn’t want my life to turn into.


And that I would become one of those suburban housewives who go to Cosco to buy Cheese Doodles in bulk… and I eat them on the way home in my minivan… and spill orange crumbs onto the front of my stretched-out button up.

Wait, I am sorry, I have to go take a tranquilizer before I finish this story so I don’t get myself too excited.


…Ok, I am ok now.


And now add on top of that my weekends are filled with things like “making draperies” out of purple-pinkish flower fabric and measuring my “window size”… and having debates over which kitty litter smells the least.


Wait, I need three more glasses of wine before I finish this.


…Ok, I am back.


And during the middle of the week I have arguments with my khaki-panted husband about things like “shingle siding”. What?! Ugh, I just want to vomit right in my bed thinking about it.

And instead of working as a writer and editor I work as an assistant at some telemarketing company, where they have a big gray building in the middle of a nowhere-technology-park. And I pull-up, going a reasonable 29 miles per hour in my gray minivan… with child throw up all over the back seat.

...oh and we own some mutt-ass dog named "Fluffalupagus"... and three smelly fish who shit all day in the tank.

However, lucky for me, this is always just a nightmare...because I wake up, every morning and look around....and then I thank God that I live alone..laying in my expensive pajamas... have nothing but vodka and bottled water in my fridge.... and some boy whose name I have yet to learn sleeping in my bed…and I breathe a sigh of relief...ahhh, now that’s much better…

2am and I stand in the back of some guy’s apartment surrounded by drunk girls playing beer pong on a half rotting wooden table. I have a warm beer in one hand a half lit cigarette in the other. One girl in shorts smaller then underwear passes by me, spilling her Corona on my shoes, “chusse know someshum here?” she asks, leaning against me.

I nod my head. I did actually. The owner of the place. And when I round the corner to the bedroom, there he is, encircled in a cloud of smoke, and I could barely open the door when I noticed some guy behind blocking it. He looks through the opening at me.

“Password?” He says.

“Jeff don’t be an asshole”. I say, and push my way inside. But being inside was like pushing through another door because I couldn’t see beyond my fingertips. Cody Chesnut and the Roots 3.0 are blasting in the background and I search around to see Chris’ face. And then suddenly it was like he was on top of me.

“Kim!” Chris says. An odd element of surprise in his voice. “You enjoying the party?”

“Of course she is!” Jeff chimes in. “Look at her! But no Baby look at ME…did you see my t-shirt babe it has an Olson twin on it...” Chris eye’s Jeff as he starts to giggle like a little girl.

I just smile and move over closer to the bed. But the more I breath in the more confused I get as to where I am going.. or who I am here to see again ..and more convinced that I need a burrito than anything else.

“Kim did you bring this dog here?” Someone says from outside the room, carrying in the tiny Yorkie.

“Yeah, but I am just puppy sitting, it’s not actually mine.”

“Well I think the dog is high…just look at him, eating all the pretzels off the floor.”

“Ah, well I am pretty sure he would do that regardless….but fuck, I don’t know if a dog can get high but more importantly how am I supposed to get him home?”

“How did you get him here anyway…in the puppy express van?”

“No, I snuck him onto the bus.”

“Well then you can sneak him back on.”

The dog just looks back at me. His small hair matted in the front from beer spillage and his tiny paws covered in cigarette ash. He apparently didn’t know he was going to be partying this weekend.

I pick up the small dog and put him in my arms. Step outside the smoky room and into the hallway. I make my way up the backstairs to the roof. As I open the door, the shot of cold air, taking away my breath for a second. And I step out onto the patio, letting the wind break against my cheek. The dog hovers into the side of my sweater, until his face if fully covered by purple wool. The city lights are high in the sky and I carefully move each heel beneath the platform so as not to drop myself and pup off the ledge.

And we just sit there. On a broken patio chair. Me and the Yorkie. Looking out over the skyline. I take another drag from my cigarette.

Sometimes we are supposed to be grownups in our 20’s. And sometimes we can barely take care of someone else’s dog for 2 days. I keep staring at the Yorkie, making sure he is breathing. “Just keep him alive for 1 more day.” I think. I feel the tiny mouse of a dog shivering into the armpit of my sweater.

And I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of people my age having children.

And I can't think about being married, or having a mortgage, or even paying my credit cards off in full.

And I can’t even end relationships peacefully and maturely.

And one day I will learn to stop crank calling the pizza delivery guy and asking him to send ten Large Pepperonis to 69 Yourmama Street.

One day. But not tonight.

So it’s true. I officially live with a dude.

Yup, he has black hair, green eyes and a high pitched meow. His name is Oscar and he is a Maine Coon Cat. I also refer to him as Oscalicious. He has gorgeous hair and sparkling eyes…so I tell him he looks just like his Mama.
Ever since Oscar moved in last month I can’t help but feel the overwhelming weight of living with a boy. He is dirty, he leaves stuff everywhere, doesn’t put things away... all he wants me to do is feed him... and when we watch TV together, he farts.

Seriously. I live with a dude. When I come home he rubs against me and is always trying to lay his head on my boobs, but the minute I start to get dressed to go out with friends he wants nothing to do with me. He will stare at the length of my skirt and at my wine glass, as if to say, "Are you getting drunk AGAIN you ho?!"

Last night I actually forgot about him for a moment and kicked him off the bed by accident. I rolled into the middle and pushed him off the side with my leg. I woke up to two green eyes staring intently at me from the floor. You could tell he was not happy...I hadn’t feed him or given him any love last night and seriously I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t rip up all my bras this afternoon while I am at work ...or hack into my facebook page.

Yesterday I found him sitting in my bathroom staring at a magazine with a half naked girl on the cover. I swear if I come home one night to find him reading a playboy while watching Sports Center I will not be fucking surprised.

Mom- "Kimberly, I am sorry to bother you at work, but I have a very important question to ask you."

Me- "What Mom?"

Mom- "How do I check my voicemail?"

Me- "Mom, you have had a cell phone for two years now, what do you mean you dont know how to check your voicemail?"

Mom-"Are you typing right now? I hear you typing, can you stop and pay attention? I need you to explain it to me again."

Me- (loud sigh, thoughts of zanax) "Alright Mom, first you dial *86"

(beep..beep..beep)

Me-"No Mom, not right now, dont do this right now, wait until I hang up."

Mom-" Oh ok, ok, keep going hunny, well wait, let me get a pen, let me find a CRAIG! CRAIG WHERE DID YOU PUT MY PENS, I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE MY..oh, ok, here we go, I have one now."

Me-" So dial *86 and when you hear the recording start enter in your password."

Mom-"What's my password?"

Me- "What do you mean what's your password, you created it!"

Mom-"Can't you just tell me what it is?"

Me- "Mom, I dont know what your password is, YOU are the one who created it.."

Mom" Ok, oh dear, oh well hmm..I think it is 1111...can you check and see if that is right?"

Me-"No Mom, I can't check, you will have to check...so enter it in and hit pound and then all your messages should come up."

Mom-"Ok hunny, I will go try it, thank you for all your help, I know you know this technology whoha."

Hang up.

Five minutes later, phone rings.

Mom- "Hi Honey!"

Me- "Mom, why are you calling me again?"

Mom-"Because I just got your message! You called and left a message for me to call you back!"

Me- "Mom I left that message three months ago...ok I am getting off the phone now..."

So in exactly one week something big is going to happen. Bigger then big actually. Something that may change the universe forever.

“Hello, My Name is Kimberly, and I do not want a Birthday party”.

“Hello Kimberly.”

So there you have it. In one week I will be 27. Yes. I am officially old. And for the past 27 years I have been parting like it’s 1981. But this year, I can’t say exactly what, but something feels different. As you can imagine, having a birthday that falls on Halloween weekend has always been the challenge…I have had Cowgirl themed parties, 80’s themed parties, Scuba-Steve parties... Last year I got ten party goers across a red rope, one who randomly walked in drunk, I made the bouncer give me a piggy-back ride, fell on the dancefloor, and ripped my dress…essentially exactly what a birthday should be about.

This year though, I am having the Old Person Blues. Yes, 27 is still young, but it’s fairly close to having to “accomplish” things…or “figure things out”…or “give up your coke habit”.

I mean I don’t know, this whole getting older thing is very confusing. Should I be married by now? Should I be having kids? Should I run for governor of Alaska?

In lieu of a normal party this year, I feel like something different and non-fun. I want a good ol’ non-fun birthday. So here are some of my ideas:

- Sit at home alone and watch “Steel Magnolias”, and cry.

-Sit at home wrapped up in a wool blanket, eat cookies and cry.

-Knit an entire sweater out of corduroy

- Watch re-runs of Full House and mutter to myself about the ‘good old days’.

-Go to 4pm early bird dinner special wearing some sort of heavy rubber soled shoe

- Speed-walk around the mall at 8am, then go home and complain about my arthritis

I would like it if you could all vote on what I should do....

The problem with all these relationship books out there is that they are all directed towards women. Most of my guy friends call me all the time with questions about girls. So why is there no book out there for them? I have decided to construct The Rules book for guys on how to get any girl in the world.

THE SHORT MEATHEAD:
For starters. He is short. But he has a ridiculous body. Want to know why? Because he is short. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? So he goes to the gym and lifts and lifts and lifts until you think that vein above his left eyelid is going to explode on the chest press. But then he lifts some more. And as for his penis, who knows you might get lucky, but I doubt it and he knows all those biceps are only going to be covering up for one very important (very tiny) thing….he probably works at gym, eats at a gym, and sleeps in a Gold’s Gym t-shirt. He is fucking fabulous.

THE TALL WALL STREET DUDE
He makes money. He says he lives somewhere ‘trendy’..he means ‘Hoboken’. He has a bedroom that has one of this brick walls in it. He drives some sort of car that has leather in it and smells like a briefcase. He thinks he is pretty smart and doesn’t laugh and your corny little jokes…unless of course he is trying to get into your pants and then he laughs and laughs and laughs like his life depended on it. He has a watch that is more expensive than your entire apartment. He drinks stuff ‘on the rocks’ and will be bald by 31.


THE SHORT WALL STREET DUDE
You ask, “Kim, how is this different from the tall wall street dude?” Well this guy is worse. Always ordering people around, telling them to get him “shit” and drinks and cars. He goes to Ulysses on a a Thursday night bragging to the other SWSD’s that he is going to eat some pussy tonight. Umm, yeah, he will, and her name will be Lucy from accounting who has acne and an overweight cat name Fluffernutter. (Trust me, I’ve seen it happen). He wears expensive cuff links and has his name embroidered on his shirt (hey MT, you’re a jackass). He own an apartment in Manhattan with a view and has a maid named Lucita whom he makes wash his shorts.


THE GAY BUT DOESN'T THINK HE IS GAY DUDE
You show up for a date with this dude and his jeans are tighter than yours. They are also about 200 dollars more expensive. You tell him you like project runway and surprise surprise, it is his favorite show AS WELL. He can’t comprehend the zebra print pillows you own and makes reference to colors in your apartment as being “opaque”. When you talk to him about prior dates he seems to say that it didn’t work out (because your gay?) and that the last few women were not his style ( because your gay?) and that he doesn’t like to jump into something overly sexual right away (because your gay?) The funny thing is, some girl out there is going to marry him and not even question his interest in Craigslist Causal Encounters. God Bless her.

THE DUDE'S DUDE
Now this is my favorite. If you had to pick from any of the following, this would be my pick. But unfortunately the dude’s dude is not normally found in urbane habitats. You normally must explore vast exotic lands, such as “Montana” to find this creature. The dude’s dude, if he does live in a city, lives with about 4 other dude’s dudes (where they can co-habit together) and normally has keggers on weekend nights held in his bathtub that has about 4 inches full of grim. He watches sports, sports center, sports highlights....he finds humor in Family Guy, he burps, farts, scratches his ass and owns two shoes, black ones and brown ones. But owns a hundred sneakers, all with different purposes. The last time he watched Project Runway was because he accidentally passed it on the way to SportsCenter and he caught a model walking runway with half her tit exposed and he paused for like 2.2 seconds to watch…until one of the dude’s dudes caught him and asked him to take the dick out of his ass and turn the channel. The dude’s dude tends to not date a lot of girls, but when he does, it’s all long term relationships, because deep down in every stiletto heeled princess is the need to find a guy who actually enjoys fixing her leaky pipes (and you know what I mean). He has a big dick and doesn’t know it or care about it, unless he is drunk and whips it out at the Freto-lay table at the Christmas Party.
Damn, I love these guys.



THE LOCAL
Yeah he is from a bor'ugh. Wanna fight about it? Yeah he talks like a lip cancer victim after fight night at the local hospital…wanna fight about it? Yeah he went to 2 years of high school and dropped out to work at the local garage and start a gym in his basement…wanna fight about it? He owns a motorcycle and grunts and farts at the gym and every shirt deserves to be cut off right at the shoulder and ripped. He has a MySpace page where the first picture is a local chick stripping and the second picture is of some shitty car he has a pet name for…wanna fight about it? Girls that date him are named Gina, have 3 inch long nails and 4 babies all from separate daddies. And her kids all wanna fight you.

THE SINGER/SONGWRITER/ACTOR/PAINTER DUDE
Oh man, here we go…it’s time to decide whether you want to go get chicken parm at the local Italian place or see Red Die Valley In Flames perform at the local basement gig. When he talks…he THINKS. He is a thinker, an overthinker, a deep thinker, a sympathetic thinker, a dysfunctional thinker. But let it be known. This dude thinks. And not just about his songs, or his art, or his soon to be stardom..it’s like awww man one day, just one day when he becomes famous it is all going to be worth it. All the late nights, all the torture. Yeah, it’s torture, you got it, and its more painful then your relationship, because his has to focus on his “craft”, his “art”..Damnit woman he has things to THINK ABOUT. Lots of thinking to do! Yeah he doesn’t have time for you tonight, because of his audition, but he wont have time for you the night before either because he will have to spend his time “thinking” about his audition. (WTF?) Yeah , I don’t’ get it either. But he is deep. And if you don’t know that, then just go see his play/musical/band/whatever perform..and maybe you can ‘see’ what he is ‘feeling’…wait…what the fuck is he talking about?

THE DEAD WEIGHT
Yeah he's cute. Yeah he has a good job. Yeah he owns an apartment. Yeah he wear khaki’s from LLBean. But umm..wait, did he just make a joke? Was that a joke? Was he trying to be funny? Did he have outward emotion? Umm..probably not, you probably mistook a pepper in his salad for actual emotion. He thinks nothing and feels nothing. He is dead weight. He is all great on paper. Every mom’s dream. And he smiles a lot and probably even has close friends from college…and of course he does, because he is fucking dead weight! All outgoing dudes have dead weight friends…it’s to make them look even MORE interesting! He is good looking enough to bring out with them to the bars and will attract girls..but he is enough of a shy idiot to not get anywhere with anyone and leave all the hooking up to his buddies. The best part about dead weight, is he will marry miss dead weight. She will have brown hair and a degree in accounting and will eat things like “balanced meals” and they will sit and talk about lawnmowers…while the rest of want to shoot ourselves in the fucking mouth.


THE SCARY CREEPY OLD DUDE
He is 40-something, thinks he is 20-something. He wears too much cologne and date about 3 different girls. You wonder how he ever got a girl in the first place. He opens the first few buttons of his shirt. And you are always thinking, “Put it away granddaddy!”. He is the dude who will sit next to you at the bar and want to immediately ask you if you are wearing a thong..as to which you want to immediately ask him if he signed up for AARP anytime recently. He sweats a lot too. No one knows exactly why, but he does. The odd thing is, half of the girls will actually sleep with him, while the other half will be filing restraining orders and sexual assault cases. I would bet any money that he has overly sweaty balls…just sayin.

THE DRUNK WITH A GOOD DAY JOB DUDE
Probably Irish. Probably drunk right now. Maybe Italian, maybe half as drunk. But damnit he is a good-time McRonney. He is always the first to hit the bars at 6pm after work and doesn’t leave until last call. He knows every song. What song? EVERY SONG! Oh and he sings them too. He grabs a hold of you, swings you around in the bar and tries to get you to sing them as well. Instead you try and peel yourself off his half-opened shirt, where he has buffalo wing stains and move to another area. But drunk guy is always there, following you around the fucking bar, screaming your name “Karen! KAREN! OUR SONG KAREN!” even though explicitly told him five times your name is Kimberly.

THE DRUG DUDE
Everytime, yes everytime, you hear it, before dinner, after lunch, before you fuck, after you fuck, at the alter...everywhere. "Well when my mom left me FOR DRUGS and then I started selling ..." Oh for the love of Sweet Jesus when does it end? Dude, WE GET IT, you hated your childhood and it forced you into drugs. You keep mentioning the last time you got high...I am pretty sure it was with some Sesame Street characters. You blame your parents who were 'crack-smoking-hoes-who tried to sell your diapers for drug money' and never cared that you were the lead in the school play, in soccer, WHATEVER...do you have to bring it up everytime? We get it, half of your siblings are in jail, your dad still asks your for money, your mom still asks you for condoms....We go to purchase angel hair pasta and the store is out you look over at us in your knitted hat, frayed jeans and doc martin shoes and say something like, "Well you know my mom made pasta with left-over crack boxes once...." Oh good sweet sally Christ, here we go again.. go find Grover or Cookie monster and light one up and let me know how it goes.

THE ALL SPORTS -ONLY SPORTS DUDE WHO CAN'T GET LAID
Dude, did you see that play? Did you hear about that team? Did you get the seats? Who did you buy the seats from? What was the score? What was last week's score? Who can I email today at work about the score? What chick can I make fun of for mispronouncing the catcher's last name? How come girls don't want to suck my penis?
Fuck.


THE ASSHOLE WHO EVERYONE LOVES BECAUSE HE IS FUNNY SO HE CAN BE AN ASSHOLE
He is normally surrounded by a bunch of other dude's (see also Dude's Dude and Dead Weight Dude)...they are all laughing at the Asshole's joke. He is picking up women at the bar, slapping them on the ass...but it's ok, it's not harassment, I mean, can't you take A JOKE?! His buddies love him because he gets his pregnant wife a body pillow and then complains that she wont let him rest his balls on it...HIL-AR-IOUS .

THE ASSHOLE WHO EVERYONE HATES BECAUSE HE IS AN ASSHOLE.
See above, minus the hilarious part. And instead of his friends wanting to buy him drinks, they want to punch him in the fucking face. but they still stay friends with him...why? who knows. Girls date him. Why? Who knows. You only know one thing for sure, he is angry and he isn't going to take it anymore....wait, take what? Who knows.

THE WANNA-BE MAGAZINE DUDE
So he reads GQ, he reads Details, he thinks he is Men's Health. He organizes his apartment, buys the new cologne in the ads. Uses the new types of shavers, talks to girls from paragraphs he reads, basis his workout on a fitness pull-out. Drinks health shakes. Tries cannoning, hiking, manicures/pedicures..whatever...did you see it in GQ? He's done it. He wants to be tough. Yet sensitive. Yet manly. Yet emotional. He actually knows what jeans are in style. AND he knows that team won last week's playoffs. He volunteers at children's hospitals (seriously?). He has the new gray sweater from Banana or Gucci, or who cares. but he has it. He smiles on the train, holds doors and goes spear fishing. Not because he wants to...but because Men's Vogue told him to! For the love of Christ can't you see how close he is to being perfect! So close that if you look extra hard that gray-nicely-worn-sweater has tear stains on it. Big ones. And soon enough he will be smoking crack with a woman named 'Honeyfied' telling her about water-polo.

*UPDATED*
(I feel like I am going to bu updating this all day because I keep thinkin of more dudes I date....sad? Maybe.)

THE STONER DUDE
Hey babe, I think it's so great that you decided to come crash on my futon that still has old sex stains on it and I mean I will definitely change out of these corduroys pretty soon but I was thinking that....mmmm burrito..have you ever had one of Harry's Burritos with that red stuff, that chunky stuff, it's kinda spicy...salsa? yeah, salsa babe...but...wait, what are we talkin about? ....I forget babe, but seriously I have to fly to LA to meet my friend Goose...he is going to let me write a play for him..or mow his lawn or something, I'm not sure..but babe how do you think I could get high before I get on the plane? I don't know...yeah babe I did my laundry...last month, whatever....come, let's just lay down for a bit on the futon...just lay right here next to me....and we should really...ummm...mmm babe lay right here.....and we, um, we, um......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

THE SENSITIVE MAMA'S BOY DUDE
He cried. Three times already in front of you. It has been four months and you haven't even cried once. There is a picture of his mom on his nightstand, his work desk, on the fridge. Every sentence starts with, "Well my Mom was saying that..." Dude, we get it, you love your mom. You want to marry your mom and frankly she comes over every weekend to iron your bedsheets and bring you homemade lasagna, it would be a sweet deal for anyone! Well these nancy-boys have a hard fucking time having relationships with girls. Wanna know why? Because we aren't your mama. And most of us aren't about to cook you string bean casserole and light your damn potpourri on fire. Mama's boys live alone and their apartment is spotless...not because they know how to clean, but because ol' Mama McGee is on her way over right now to shampoo their rugs.He tends to not be overly sexual or good in bed...how could he be with Mama McGee's high-waisted denim flashing through his mind every two seconds? And as you sit down to dinner with him all you can think is, "If you bring up your mom one more damn time..."

Sin importar lo que vuestras opiniones tengan que decir, os dire una cosa... regresara

el proximo lunes como es de costumbre para daros otra columna y esperemos que para ese entonces ya Kim este un poco mas tranquilizada.

Manly Bike for Sale
Reply to:
Date: 2008-07-22, 10:18AM

Bike for sale

What kind of bike? I don't know, I'm not a bike scientist. What I am though is a manly guy looking to sell his bike. This bike is made out of metal and kick ass spokes. The back reflector was taken off, but if you think that deters me from riding at night, you're way wrong. I practiced ninja training in Japan's mount Fuji for 5 years and the first rule they teach about ninja biking is that back reflectors let the enemy know where you are. Not having a rear reflector is like saying "FUCK YOU CAR, JUST TRY AND FIND ME".

The bike says Giant on the side because it's referring to my junk, but rest assured even if you have tiny junk that Giant advertisement is going to remain right where it is. I bought this bike for 300 dollars from a retired mercenary that fought in both World War 1 and World War 2 and had his right arm bitten off by a shark in the Phillipines while stationed there as a shark handler. When he sold it to me I had to arm wrestle him for the honor to buy it. I broke his arm in 7 places when I did.

He was so impressed with me he offered me to be his son but I thought that was sissy shit so I said no way.

The bike has some rusted screws, but that just shows how much of a bad ass you are. Everyone knows rusted screws on a bike means that you probably drove it underwater and that's bad ass in itself.

Those screws can be replaced with shiny new ones, but if you're going to go to that trouble why not just punch yourself in the balls since you're probably a dickless lizard who doesn't like to look intimidating.

The bike is for men because the seat is flat or some shit and not shaped like a dildo. If you like flat seated bikes you're going to love this thing because it doesn't try to penetrate your ass or anything.

I've topped out at 75 miles per hour on this uphill but if you're just a regular man you'll probably top it out at 10 miles per hour. This thing is listed as a street bike which is man-code for bike tank. The bike has 7 speeds in total:

Gear 1 - Sissy Gear
Gear 2 - Less Sissy Gear
Gear 3 - Least Sissy Gear
Gear 4 - Boy Gear
Gear 5 - Pre-teen Boy Gear
Gear 6 - Manly Gear
Gear 7 - Big Muscles Gear

I only like gear 6 and 7 to be honest.

Additionally, this tool of all immense men comes with a gigantic lock to keep it secure. The lock is the size of a bull's testicles and tells people you don't fuck around with locking up your bike tank. It tells would-be-thieves "Hey asshole, touch this bike and I'll appear from the bushes ready to club you with a two-by-four".

Bike is for 150 OBO (and don't give me no panzy prices)

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial
interests

Original URL: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sfo/765370039.html -------------------------------------------------this craigslist posting was forwarded to you by someone using ouremail-a-friend feature - if you want to prevent these, please go to:http://www.craigslist.org/cgi-bin/te/tl2ay9mZzVmcAVDdh12ZuwWat92Y6

“He is a party-boy.” She said, staring at me from across the couch, running her blonde hair through her fingers.

“How do you know that?” I asked. “You just met him last night… he seemed fairly normal at the bar.”

Blondie: “Because I facebook’d him. I saw his pictures.”

Me: “Why did you have to do that, it just ruins it.”

Blondie: “I know, but when I saw the pictures, he was just drunk in every one of them.”

But isn’t that what Facebook photos are all about? If not to make people think we have better lives then we actually do, then what?

I was hoping that this “fake online life” craze had ended when MySpace started to go downhill. As one of my good friends put it, not switching to Facebook and staying with MySpace was like, “being the last one at that late night bar, where you are mid-dancing with your drink up in the air and suddenly you look around and realize that everyone has left.”

I know that whatever you put in your online Facebook or MySpace profile, is not the real you, but more an exaggerated, better looking version of you. If we all judged each other based on our online profiles you would think most of us had taken up residence at some Cancun foam party.

It is not as though Facebook or MySpace captures the “real” moments of my life. Moments when I am sitting at home reading- “Single Women Who Cry Every Night” -while clipping my snaggle-toe nail.

In fact I am fairly certain this boy’s drunken photos are simply a cover up for some kind of childhood abuse (I like to think positively). ..Or, as I assertively told her, to make up for, “his small penis”.

She claimed she hadn’t seen to yet to judge. That is rubbish.

Drunk frat photos are code for an alcoholic mother.

Similarly, drunk sorority photos imply abusive daddy issues.

I told her not to judge a book by its cover. And I meant it too, because this kid is hot, and who needs personality when your cover looks like Dean McDermott? No one. Not one damn person.

If she could eliminate boys now based on facebook, what is next? People eliminating each other based on some type of online “dating” site where they are forced to post pictures, bio information and whether they're single or divorced or what not? …. That sounds like crazy year 3000 talk. We are not that advanced here.

I myself, don’t go for all that online stuff. I like to judge people the old fashioned way. …by how much money they have.

Guest Blogger:...Drum Roll Please...NYMagazine.

Ummm..because they are NY?...And a magazine? ...And they have pictures and not a lot of words ...and that makes me happy?

NYMAG.com


Meet Winter Raymond, Overachiever







ElleWomen's magazines often make women feel inadequate. That's, like, what they do. But seldom do they make us feel quite so inadequate as September's Elle, which features a woman called Winter Raymond:



When 27-year-old Winter Raymond isn't slogging through her third year of law school in Boston, she's in Seoul, Korea, juggling a law firm internship, a fledgling company (Seoulplay, a concierge service for business travelers she launched last year) and burgeoning TV stardom on the Korean answer to The Dating Game, in which she hits the town with famous comedians.



Really? How is that even possible? It's like she's one of those characters from Heroes.




Also she apparently does all this wearing $1,500 Jimmy Choo sandals and carrying a $2,595 Gucci bag. We, on the other hand, can't even put on earrings in the morning (the effort makes us nauseated).





We totally hated her immediately.