SELFABSORBED.ME

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..."

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

The first day I met Shawn I was sitting on an Extra Long twin bed. And I had on some sort of denim jacket. The window outside out my building was facing two trees leading up to this empty hill on the outskirts of the Bronx.

And I remember hearing the knock as I sat hands deep in a box of picture albums. It was so soft I almost didn’t hear it at first, until I had that undeniable sensation that someone was standing at my doorway. And I stood up, tiptoed barefoot around the moving boxes until I reached the large metal front door and opened it up.

He stood there like a great big piece of steak. Arms large enough to not touch the sides of his body, dangling them around as though they were painful to hold up. I wondered how those arms could even reach his penis to take a piss or if he just had to shoot and hope it aimed right.

Steak stared right at me, “You’re coming to the meeting, right Kim?”

So not only did this piece of steak know what my name was, he also knew about some alleged meeting that I was not going to be in attendance for.

Me, “I’m sorry?”

Him, “Kim, I am Shawn, your resident assistant. We have a meeting in ten minutes. You will be coming, right?”

I thought for a minute. No actually I am going to be heading to Time Square with two unknown other freshman to try and find fake ID’s in the village shops that also sell bong…yes?

But I just stared at his big arms and tanned face.

Me, “Yeah. I was planning on going.”

Steak, “Good, I will see you there.”

I attended the resident meeting that evening.
I also attended everyone after for the next eight months.

It was about four months into flirting that I first became to realize that Shawn was crazy. . And I should have noticed it a lot sooner, as he started to do odd things, like call me up at work and tell me he was in the hospital and was going to have a leg amputated due to a car accident. (He has two legs to this day) but that is a whole other Shawn story.

I walked into his bedroom one night with another residence, Molly, who although earring from the backwoods of Connecticut, was Irish enough to have been a drunk sailor with four beers and two clover condoms in her pocket. And we walked lazily into his room one night when we spotted pictures of this woman skewed across the front of his desk.

Molly, “Who is that Shawn? Your girlfriend?”

I tried not to get too close to the pictures. Having already decided in my head that I would lose my virginity to Shawn I figured it was it was bad luck of some sort to get too close too close to any woman that he had had more then a friendly encounter with. Molly kept moving in closer to view this alleged “girlfriend” as I drew farther away, just barely skimming the photos with the tips of my fingers, I wanted to get close enough to the pictures to run my fingers along them and rip them into shreds.

Unfortunately the woman from the photos was too beautiful to pass up as I drew closer to the last one on the desk which appeared to be directly out of a catalogue I had seen before.

“Is this from a catalogue?” I asked. Not trying to sound interested and especially not impressed, more like factual information, such as “Does she have five fingers?”

But instead he answered with the most horrible answer of all that prevent me from eating ay kind of substantial meal for about three straight weeks in the cafeteria, “Yes…she is a model.”

I remember feeling the vomit right then and there. Some MODEL was dating my future virginity card owner. How could that be? Did she not know who I WAS?

Molly seemingly now ever more impressed stumbled over to the final photo like the typical drunken sailor and squinted her eyes to look closer. I tried to push her out of the way a bit, trying to block the beauty of this beauty.

Molly, “Wow Shawn, she is gorgeous.”

Me, “Ok, Ok, let’s get going, we have things to do…I have to get a new bathmat, I mean really, we don’t have time for this.”

I remember grabbing Molly and getting her the hell out of that room of torture. It was worse then that hacked movie where the Swedish girls drug two boys and then send them to a place to be chopped up to death by a man named Oscar in leather doctor’s coat.

For one whole month I could barely look at him during the residence meetings. Dating a MODEL, mother fucker, while I sat around trying to become vainly interested in protein shakes and Kashi. And suddenly, everywhere I walked, MODELS! Models were everywhere, I couldn’t fucking throw a meth bag in the park without it knocking one over.

And one month later to be precise I sat on the bed of my friend Elaine, a New Jersey girl with long hair, blue eyes and face beautiful enough to seriously intimidate me into doing whatever she said. If she had told me to Intern at the 99 cent store, I probably would have. I sat looking through her Vogues, when I flipped open some magazine cover and there she was! Model! Model just sat there on the inside of her cover, so seemingly confident she might as well have been looking directly at me, giving me the bird.

Me, “There she is! Model! She is single handily destroying my life and delaying my virginity!”

Elaine, “What on earth are you talking about woman?”

Me, “Here!” I threw the magazine at her. “Shawn’s girlfriend!’.

Elaine pulled the magazine up to her face before eliciting a look of sheer confusion.

Elaine, “Kim...this is a model.”

Me, “No Elaine this is THE Model.”

Elaine, “Kim, do you know who this is?”

Me, “The Model who is single handily ruing my sexual desire and delaying the loss of my virginity and essentially livelihood on this earth?”

Elaine, “Um, no, Kim this is Gisele Bundchen.”

Me, “I am sorry? No no, this is Model, Shawn’s girlfriend. Shawn is dating this girl, he has pictures of her in his room everywhere.”

Elaine, “Are they cutouts from a magazine?”

Now as the wheels turn I know what you are probably thinking, which is, why did I not think of this before, but can I just say one thing here? I spent the first 18 years of my life living in NH going to a theater called the IOKA where one movie a week played.

Elaine, “Kim, this is Gisele, she is the TOP SUPERMODEL IN THE WORLD…and she is dating Leonardo DiCaprio…not Shawn the resident assistant.”

Fuck me.

Now if this is the moment wherein you think I just a “good laugh” or a chuckle ‘or I put on my fucking happy pants and went and did a dance in the hallway, you would be wrong. I was so mad, I ran to her computer and googled this alleged ‘Gisele’. I then sat for about two hours printing out pictures of her, trying to get a photo with her name underneath, some cover where it was clearly printed that she was indeed, the top supermodel of the world, and not as I had believed the Resident Assistant’s girlfriend. I grabbed these photos off the printer and threw open Elaine’s doorway, heading right for Shawn’s room.

I could hear Elaine trying to follow behind me. And when I got to his room I did one of those door bangs that says something along the lines of “I am in a hurry” and “Please open the door because I have a bomb.”

The door swung open , but instead of Shawn, his drunk roommate Randy answered instead. Randy was about 5 ft 3 and hyped on so much creatine and steroids he made Barry Bonds look like Tiny McGee. He stood in white underwear and Elvis sunglass.

Randy, “May I help you mam?”
Me, “Yes where is Shawn right now?”

Randy, “Shawn is indisposed at the moment.”

I turn to walk away, when he appeared. Half cocked and in some sort of white tank top that I believe, as Jesus as my witness, was made for women.

Shawn, “What’s going on with you tonight Miss Kimberly?” He hovered underneath the hallway’s florescent light.

Me, “Oh I will tell you what is going on with Miss Kimberly you mother fucker!”
And already I could feel myself throwing my virginity card right down the proverbial trash barrel.

I threw one of the pictures up in the air, right into the over processed oxygen and it floated to the ground in front of his feet. He leaned over to pick it up off the ground, and a group of girls began to emerge from the room.

His face reddened and this huge smile appeared.

Shawn, “What is this…pictures of my girlfriend you found?”

Me, “No. Shawn. Not pictures of Model, Because as we can see here from these photos…” I begin to start waving more of the printed pictures around, “This in fact is not your girlfriend at all…this is in fact Gisele Bundchen, the top SUPERMODEL OF THE WORLD. “

I can tell Elaine is now peering out from behind the corner of the hallway. Witnessing the massacre that is about to begin.

He smiled this big open grin.

Shawn, “Well…I just can’t believe you actually believed me..”

I stared into his face, my own burning hot with embarrassment and anger.

Me, “I AM FROM NEW HAMPSHIRE!...I BELIEVE WHAT EVERYONE TELLS ME!”

I swing around to the other corner of the couch.

Shawn, “Kim…come here…hand me the photos…”

Me, “No, I will not hand you the photos you asshole..” I begin to throw them around like a crazy person. Have you ever seen the woman who yells at cats in the 79th street Duane Reade? Well I was starting to look a bit like her.

I would fold the pictures half over to give them just enough angle to point directly and shoot at his face.

He started to follow me around the side of the hallway couch. “Come here, and give those photos to me Kim, it was just a little joke Kim and it went too far…and you were just gullible enough to believe it, that’s all. “

Me, “FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM FROM NEW HAMPSHIRE YOU ASSHOLE!” I begin throwing more pieces of paper at him, as he tried to circle the couch and I keep heading away from him in a clockwise direction.,

Shawn, “YOU ARE THE ASSHOLE FOR BELIEVING IT!”

By now I am staring to notice in between circling the couch and aiming the photos right for his eyes, that a number of people have started to poke their heads out of their rooms and a small crowd is forming.

Me, “I ATE KASHI FOR YOU!”


The couch circling has now turned into a small jog.

Me, ‘I SPENT THE PAST MONTH TRYING TO LOOK LIKE THE GIRL ON THE COVER, TRYING TO LOOK LIKE THE GIRL YOU ‘DATE’ “

Shawn, “IF YOU WERE SOMEONE ELSE I MIGHT ACTUALLY DATE YOU.”

Ok, this is what we call, game over.

This is when the running and couch circling and paper throwing, all halted. And I stopped, stared at the crowd of people, now staring at me. About 20 people standing in the hallway. Just staring. Photos of Gisele now littered all across the floor. And it is completely silent.

And I drop the papers. Just like that. Drop them on the floor. And walk away. The papers fall everywhere, 20 or 30 of them sliding along the tiled ground.

I start this long tedious walk back to my own room. With everyone just standing there, watching me walk back.

I head halfway down the hall, open my bedroom door. Walk inside and slam it shut.

My roommate was sitting on the edge of her bed, watching me as I walked in.

Roommate, “What the hell is going on out there?”

Me, “Umm, I am not losing my virginity now.”

She nodded her head and went back to her report.

2005 called ...and it wants its top back

This outfit alone we shall refer to as, Mistake Number One.

Now let’s proceed to Mistake Number Two.

Punch.

Yeah, fucking punch man.

Fruity, pink colored, tasty, delicious, fucking punch.

I don’t know why, but it tricks me like a good looking man every time.

Oh yum, what is this pink, fruity , delicious…BA-BAM! What’s my..whochose mah name..my schmamane…ahhh whereshess mah pursh?

At the time I was at a party on the Upper East Side. The girls I was with decided to head out and over to a bar downtown. As they were leaving the party I saw them out of the corner of my one-blurred-eye and instinctively followed behind. I knocked out two sorority chicks into a glass coffee table trying to make it to the door, I was in a fucking white denim mini skirt and I was taking no prisoners. As soon as I made it out the front door I was so wobbly in my heels I lost my balance and fell down one flight of steps.

Well, at least I was at the bottom now.

This is where the story starts to become unclear. We will now come upon moments of blackness.

And these moments I will cleverly refer to in the story as, “moments of blackness”.

I remember getting in the cab. And then there is about ten minutes of blackness.

The next thing I know I look around and I am standing in McFadden’s Bar and Grill on 42^nd Street.

This will be known as: Mistake Number Three.

Now I remember someone handing me a cranberry and vodka. And I remember turning around to flirt with some dark haired boy. Followed by a moment of blackness.

For whatever reason the next thing I knew when I looked up I was making out with this boy, in a booth in the restaurant-dining-section of McFaddens, where other patrons where sitting eating broccoli and cheddar soup.

Mistake Number Four.

In midst of the seventh-grade make-out session in the bottom of the vinyl booth, I paused to look up around me. Strange Boy leaned in to kiss me again, I hesitated feeling the distinctive rumble in my stomach and burning in my throat. I looked at him and quickly got up from the booth, turned around and said , “Excuse me... I have to go vomit now.”

And walked away.

Just like that.

Unfortunately for me, there were three wooden steps I had to go down to make it over to the bathroom area. Holding into random strangers for support I finally hit the third stair, when I lost my balance and fell backwards into a group of guys.

“Whoa whoa whoa, watch chourself!” I yelled at the boys. “Jush betcher watch jushelf!” I said again, clearly pointing at the dudes who caught me falling.

“Kim?” I heard one of the guys say.

This part I refer to as, Mistake Number Five.

I whipped around, which in my drunken stupor was more like two times around, and squinted my eyes, staring into his face. I was now about two inches from the tip of his nose.

Suddenly it hit me.

Me- “The g-chym! The chym, jush a trainer at the chym?”

Trainer- “Yeah I’m a trainer at your gym, I see you there a lot, my name is Doug.”

Me- “Ryan?”

Trainer-“No, no…uh…my name is Doug.”

Me- “Brian! It is so ghood to see chu Brian!”

Trainer-“It’s Doug.”

Me-“Oh, sorry Ryan…where’s mah friends Ryan, whereas my friends, I chant find them?”

Trainer-”I don’t know what they look like Kim... I don’t know your friends.”

Me- “Molly? Chu don't know her? I jush need chu to find them fhor me. Can chu finhd them??”

Trainer (please make note he said this completely deadpan) “Well... do you have a picture of them on you?”

Now I actually stopped and thought about this for a moment. In fact maybe more then a moment, maybe more like a good 10 or 15 seconds. It did seem logical.

Me-“Actually… I don’t.”

He laughed a little. Then all I remember is turning around and someone handing me another cranberry and vodka.

There is now a moment of blackness.

I do not remember leaving McFaddens. I do not remember getting in the cab. I do not even remember the actual cab ride. (another note- the only good thing about being this drunk is you dont spend shit money-wise, everyone pays for everything for you...mostly because you don't even know how to unbuckle your wallet at this point.)

I do remember the cab stopping however and I looked up, my face hanging outside the windshield. Apparently I had been riding the entire cab ride like that... face out the window in the wind, like a Golden Retriever.

My friends opened the door on the right and I opened the door on the left. As I went to stand and walk out of the cab, it hit me. I couldn’t stand at all. I lost my balance and fell right into the bush outside my building.

I just laid there.

In the distance I could hear my friends talking.

But I couldn’t move.

Friend 1- “Wait…where did Kim go? She got out of the cab right?”

Friend 2- “Yeah, I mean I saw her open her door and get out, I know she got out.”

Friend 1 “Where the hell did she go…KIM?! Kim?!”

I wanted to yell back that I was here. I was OK and I was here. But I couldn’t speak. So I just kept laying in the bush.

Finally, Friend 2 spotted me.

Friend 2- “Oh My God! She is in the bush! Kim, Kim, come get out of that bush, come upstairs, come get out of the bush!”

Me- “No, jush leave me here for a bit…jush nicea out herea…let meh sleep in the bush for a minutea.”

Friend 2 “No no Kim, you can't sleep in the bush... Let’s get you inside..”

There is then about the next hour or so of blackness.

And then vomit.

Lots and lots of vomit.

Extreme increasing clarity. Followed by an absurd about of vomit. Vomit coming out of my nose, stinging my eyes. Everywhere.

Followed by even worse,weeks worth of calling some NYSC personal trainer “Ryan” only to find out a month later when the manager finally had to come over and inform me that his name was actually Doug…and that "Doug" would prefer if I did not follow him around in the gym anymore.

Fuckin punch man.

Only $55 Dollars A Month To Embarrass Yourself

This is exactly how I feel about baseball too

Last year when all the world seemed calm and serene and Britney Spears still had an ounce of dignity left, I myself spent a fall season learning some important lessons about a little thing I like to call "sports"...now being that I live with all women and think eating cookie dough at 3am while crying during a cotton commercial is normal, sports in essence is never really a big topic...that is of course, until a couple of us went and did the unthinkable last year and got boyfriends. The minute you get a boyfriend you suddenly realize not understanding sports is like not understanding how to unzip Levi's high waisted black Jeans...you don't really want to know, but eventually you are just forced into it.

I had wandered down the street into a little sports bar where there was a sea of team jerseys everywhere and men with arms outstretched in the air, waving them frantically at the TV screen. It was so packed if my seat got pushed any closer to the bar I would officially have been able to rest my boobs on top comfortably. It was an enchanted day of baseball and I was revealing in all its glory next to hundreds of men who were drunk and spilling beer all over themselves…it was a magical moment.

I yelled just like how they yelled, I booed how they booed, clapped when they clapped...peed how they...wait, what?...Essentially, I had no fucking idea what was going on.

I remember earlier in the summer being at my friend Jeff’s apartment, watching the Yankees and trying to play this little game I like to call 'pretend like you know what is actually going on'.

They flashed Chris Ray’s profile across the screen and I began yelling, “Go Chris! Yeah yeah yeah!” I could see my friend Jeff staring at me as though I had just cut off his left testicle. “KIM…Do you LIKE the Orioles??” (Umm, who? what? Oreos? Yeah I like Oreos why?) What was I supposed to tell him? I was cheering just for the sake of cheering? Because I thought it was the right moment to scream something?
Our conversation went something like:

“KIM, why are you cheering for Chris Ray, stop cheering for Chris, you don’t even know what the fuck you’re cheering about and he is not even a Yankee.”

“Well fine, if you put it that way, then fine I won't cheer anymore, I just thought that…”

“How about you cheer for the Yankees, Kim?? How about that one? Can you just follow the color of the uniforms? Is that too much to ask? Kim, the Yankees have on the uniforms that say NEW YORK…can you follow that?”

Now I wait for the cheer. I see a game going on and I sit there thinking.. wait for it…wait for it…wait for it… and then as the bar beings to roar all of a sudden I am screaming, yelling and throwing my shoes at the TV just like everyone else… people throw shoes, right?

When it comes to picking up girls in a bar, there are many ways a man can go about it. Persistence…flattery…roofies…. But no way more brilliant than the angry man tactic. I have come across many ‘angry men’ in my day and let me tell you, there is nothing that says ‘take me home and bed me tiger’ than a man yelling at me over a beer. Whoa, yell at me some more you manly animal and get my engines running.

The angry man has a few key characteristics to watch out for…primary he is.. angry. This is why scientists and intellects like myself refer to him as “angry man”. It is a very scientific term and has profound roots in Latin I believe…or something similar.

The angry man posses this trait called, “being a douchbag”. And he tries to use this ‘douchbag’ trait as a way to pick up women. Dear good sir can I have a douchbag of my very own? One day when I grow up and become a lady, I want an asshole to come yell at me in a bar! Oh pretty please can I have a douchbag of my very own for my birthday? Can Jesus send one to me in a Fed-Ex pouch from Heaven?

- The angry man will pick a fight with you at the bar so that you pay him some attention. The angry man says to himself, “How can I make this lovely girl turn around and notice me? …I know, how about I turn around and punch her in the fucking face”…

- Angry man loves to yell at you for not noticing him. How dare you not notice angry man in the corner waiting to yell at you for not noticing him?! Can’t you see? He has everything you want?! He is angry! Women don’t dream about men on white horses, no, they dream about waiting to be cornholed in the face.

- Angry man loves to approach you and insult you upon first approach. What a clever little man angry man is, how did he KNOW women love to be insulted! There is no better way to make me want you then by a clear well-executed insult…make fun of the way I talk? Well just take me home tonight lover! Insult a hot girl and she will think to herself, “Who is this angry man insulting me, Hot Girl, he must be brave warrior, I must take him home now back to my layer."

- Angry man will get angry when you do not want to fight back with him, also know as ‘engaging in conversation with him’. He wants to make sure you know one thing, he is angry.
This is why I raise my glass and toast to you angry man. For getting more drinks thrown in your face than a leprechaun at an anti-midget parade.

Angry Man:
A Picture Summary:
Ohh is he yelling? He looks like a bowl of fun...did he steal that haircut from Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince?