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

“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.

So last night I came home to about an inch of water across my bedroom carpet and kitchen floor. Now as much as I love pools, I don’t want to live in one. The water was seemingly coming from the bottom up though, not from the ceiling down. I stood there, my feet soaking , staring at the water. How could it possibly be coming from the ground up? I am on the 2nd floor of my building, it didn’t make any logical sense. Was water rising now like heat? Was I in some sort of sci-fi thriller and soon my lights would shut off and I would become a virgin again screaming into a house phone that I don’t even own (do people actually have home phones still or did that go away with the dinosaurs?) .

So I went downstairs and explained the situation to my doorman.

Me- “There is water all on my kitchen floor and carpet.”

Him- “Your name Kim, yes?”

Me- “Um, Yes?”

Him- Shakes his head and goes and calls some maintenance guy.

I don’t know what that’s about, but continuing on…

One hour later I hear a knock at my door. I open the door and there he stands.

The maintenance guy.





He was about 6 ft 2, and built like a meatpaddy who does a lot of steroids and bathes in bronzing cream. I just stood there staring at him for a good minute. He was wearing a wife beater and shorts. As I stood there in the doorway staring at him, the Meatpaddy spoke.

Meatpaddy: "I am here to fix your pipes.”

Me: "Why yes, yes you are...”

Meatpaddy: “Should I go into your bedroom for the leak?”

Me: (still standing with the door half open) “Yes, my bedroom, that is exactly where you should go.”

Meatpaddy: “So, I guess you should probably let me inside?”

Me: “Yes...you can go inside.”

I still stand there, holding the door, until I see him staring at me. I laugh a little and open the door the rest of the way.

Meatpaddy walks right over to our central air unit, opens the door and bends down. Meanwhile I am standing behind him wishing he could bend down over and over again and how I am going to break my fucking central air everyday now, along with every other single pipe in my home.

One of my roommates emerges from her bedroom and I grab her arm and start pinching like a 12 year old gay boy who just discovered his queendom.

“The MAINTENANCE GUY is here” I say giving her big eyes. She just shakes her head at me.

Meatpaddy gets up from the floor and tells us something about the pipes or whatnot.

Meatpaddy- "So it appears as though your central air tubing has dislocated.”

Me Thinking- I wonder if he goes to the gym every day, or maybe just three times a week. I bet he could lift me with one of those arms and throw me onto some horse.

Meatpaddy - "And because it wasn’t on tightly enough the water has been dripping.”

Me Thinking- Or maybe he just goes to the gym twice a week but he has one of those ab rollers he uses at home, or the thigh master, because that Susan woman wasn’t kidding those damn things work like a mother fucker .

Meatpaddy - "So the more it dripped the more the water collected under your floor and that’s why it created a pool under your carpeting. So essentially all you have to do is just stick it back in..”

Me- “I’m sorry…what?!"

Meatpaddy - “You know stick it in..the tubing, stick it back in the hole so that it fits tightly.”

Me - "Right right... the tubing…”

Meatpaddy - “Can I see the water damage in your bedroom.”

Me - Yes, let me show you my bedroom.”

We go and stand in my bedroom together. We are just standing there. Looking at the floor.

Me- “Do you see how wet it is...it is very wet.”

Meatpaddy - “Wow, that is really wet maybe I can come in tomorrow and have someone take care of that for you.”

Me-“Yes, I need someone to take care of that.”

Meatpaddy – “How about I will come in myself tomorrow and bring a blower”

Me-”That would be perfect...a blower.”

Meatpaddy - “Ok so what time do you want me to come in and blow your rug?”

Me-“Anytime.”

Meatpaddy - "Anytime?"

Me- "Yes."

Meatpaddy - "I think I have your cell phone right here..can I call when I come in for the rug?"

Me- "You can call me about the rug anytime."

Meatpaddy - ”Ok, will do, you know, I am here just to satisfy the tenants.”

Me- “Yes, I see that.”

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.

So let’s turn down the lights a bit. Get some candles going. Set the mood. Close your eyes…but wait, no keep them open and keep reading…so move your body around a bit. You hear some Usher starting to play softly in the background…You want to, “Make love in this club (what?!) ..In this club (Who?!) …In this club (where?! ).. In this club…”

Ok yeah, so you are standing there and he enters the room, wearing nothing but a…well..ok a Speedo, but still, hey I am not saying anything…because he is damn Michael Phelps and he just got done winning the Gold Medal in the Backstroke for you! All for you damnit!


So he walks over to you and you cant help but stare at his legs,

...his thighs…his umm “other Phelps”…those hip bones…those pelvic bones…that stomach…that belly button…that ribcage…those hands..those arms….damn his shoulders...his collar bone…his Adam's apple…his….. ..HOLY CHRIST JESUS SWEET LORD..WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! …his face? Sweet Jesus say that is not his face! That cant be that just can’t be…ok calm down, breathe, breathe, just keep breathing and look at his stomach move down to his stomach again…

Ok good, good, relax, look at those pelvic bones…nice..oookay nice…doing well, oh yeah…that waist..that tight smooth skin..

and you just want to grab his arms and wrap them around his body and pull him down to you…until his body is next to yours and you look up and notice his SWEET HONEY BEARS IN VEGAS WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH HIS FACE…I DON’T UNDERSTAND…HOW COULD THAT POSSIBLY BE..HOW COULD A GOOD GOD BE SO CRUEL…..OK EYES DOWNWARD... EYES. DOWN. WARD…LOOK . DOWN. LOOK DOWN NOW!

Ok ok, wait until the vomit subsides…ok, swallow back the vomit and stare at those legs…ok , you ok? Are we ok now? Ok good...Staring at the legs again? Ok , yes let the nausea pass…ok good, look at those calves, and those hamstring…yum? Ok good, now…oh don’t look up…
HOLY HELL WHAT HAPPENED, SOMEONE PLEASE BURN MY EYES WITH CHLORINE AND AMMONIUM CONCENTRATE I CANT STAND TO LOOK AT THIS FACE ANYMORE….

Dear Tampon Man,

I know you are standing there. I see you. Even though your head is buried down into the neck of your Northface windbreaker. As you eye the Summer’s Eve and Playtex collections. I know you will see me and start looking around as though you are completely lost. Lost in a sea of tightly stuffed cotton as you start saying, “Um, condoms? ...condoms? This isn’t the condom aisle? This isn’t the EXTRA LARGE Trojan condom aisle?”

I get it Babydoll, you got a girl, and that girl, unbenounced to you, actually has a period. I know I know, I am a real life Nancy Drew.

And I know how the entire situation went down too. She was sitting on the couch, hoping that you don’t mind watching TLC’s a Baby Story while you were hoping that surviving 30 minutes of ‘Kate’s Triple Birth in a hot tub', gets you at least 10 minutes of her sucking your cock….and right before the camera guy gets a good pan-in of the birth canal, you lean in to kiss her and it’s as though she suddenly morphs into that horrible dragon from the sea movie that freaked you the fuck out when you were 7 years old. And as the fire and lava pours out of her fanged-mouth she bellows, “I HAVE MY PERIOD , GO BUY ME TAMPONS!" Because, as all women know, we can’t get our fat asses off the couch to grab another tub of caramel toffee popcorn, let alone hike it over 2 blocks to the 79th Street Duane Reade.

So you have to tear yourself away from TLC , curse out the day you ever bought this bitch a Malibu Baybreeze at Bombabalie’s Romper Room, and head out to the drugstore to try and figure out which piece of cotton looks the best to you.

So as I pass you in the aisle that day, Tampon Man, I look over, lean in and whisper right into your innocent sport-center watching ear, “…get the plastic Platex ones labeled super.”
And just as I pass by, I see you look up and bow your head at me, like a minion bowing to his king, and I watch you grab the shit-tastic purple flowered box and make a beeline for the register.

God bless you Tampon Man, as I watch you walk off into the sunset, carrying Platex Gentle Glides in hand.

Look at Jim here, he already got laid twice because of this article.

Oh the timeless art of buying a girl a drink. As ex-roommie and I sometimes joke, we can go out on the town with five dollars in our pockets and come home with twenty-five...oh wait, hmm, maybe that was a stripper joke I heard at Scores...regardless I think it still applies... It is the only advantage to being a women sometimes, besides being able to lactate, which I hear is extremely handy in providing nourishment to 'babies'... that can't be proven though, unlike my five-dollar theory, which is scientifically proven to be true.

Drink-buying, however, is also a much disputed over topic between men and women. I know plenty of men out there who actually refuse to buy a woman they don't know any drinks at a bar and will go out of their way to avoid the drink-buying game. I debated this question with a guy friend over the phone once;

“It is considered good manners to offer a girl a drink if you plan on chatting with her for the rest of the night, or if you are getting a drink for yourself,” I reasoned.

”Kim,” he said. “Buying random girls drinks is for sad, pathetic men who can’t get a girl anyway.”

“So you wouldn’t buy me a drink?”

“This is 2008 and women have have jobs now.”

“But my job doesn’t pay as much as your job does.”

“Well, then maybe you need to get a new job.”

Fuck me.

So why can’t we have jobs and get our free drinks too?

Not only is buying a woman drinks an art form, but actually avoiding the person who bought you the drink afterwards is, I believe, the true art. I tend to be polite, try and stay and chat for as long as I think the drink is worth it.. then I make some excuse about having to get back home to my sister who is recovering from a bad case of the black plague (Hey, I hear it's coming back around again).

I don't have enough time in the universe to comment on what is wrong with Tevas

Last night a member of the male species emerged from our bathroom and proclaimed, “Well if I ever get shot or fatally wounded and am bleeding profusely I know there will be enough pads and tampons to save me and an entire army…” My roommates and I just stared at him.

Yes, I admit it; living with all women in a sorority style apartment is like swimming in the waters of a fallopian tube. There is enough estrogen in our place to make anyone want to curl up on the pink sofa with a nice Anne Geddes posters and cry. But the thing I have discovered is men also run in similar patterns.

Walking around Macy’s this morning, spraying myself with every perfume imaginable; until I had enough alcohol doused on me to be completely flammable, I realized something truly magical…being kid-free and husband-free is like winning the lottery. I have no one to spend my money on other than myself. If I want to skip out on buying groceries this month in lieu of the new Cole Han limited edition leather, then damnit all, I will….Because who cares, it’s my spending account. What else would I be spending my money on anyway? Donations to Darfur? Homeless children’s education? Feeding the supermodels?

See the problem with having a family, also known as, “people you care about”, is all your money goes right to them. Got a baby? And not one of those diaper-less, food-less babies (they make those now, right?) Well there goes that money you were saving for the new leather coat! That baby will prevent you and your new leather coat from ever having a lavish love affair together. Damn that baby! Doesn’t he know how greedy he is? Can he not eat for just one day?

Husbands are even worse. You have to dress them and feed them and pretend like you enjoy spending 200 bucks on mid season tickets to watch some loser throw some ball at some other loser wearing tight pants, while you aren’t even watching the game, because instead you are freezing your ass off in some enormous parking lot just because you decided to leave halfway through to pop a squat between two parked cars and then got your coathood strings stuck under the muffler of one of those alleged parked cars….I’m sorry..what? Wait? Were we talking about something? Um yes, so do you know what I enjoy spending my money on…things that don’t involve anyone else but myself. I like to know my bank account is exactly where it should be...tied up in plastic, lots and lots of plastic.

-When did they decide to let Hillary run for office? Women can’t run for office! They get menstruation! I read somewhere their periods attract bears. Bears can smell the menstruation. And well, that is just great, you hear that? Bears. Now you're putting the White House and presumably the whole country in jeopardy!

-Where did polyester go? What happened to that nice itchy fiber that shirts and some well priced slacks used to be made out of? I want to go to a nightclub, see some Latin person dancing and walk over like I know what I’m doing on the dance-floor because, hey, I am wearing polyester. And maybe this Latin guy doesn’t really want to dance with me just because of this synthetic fiber I am wearing. Maybe he hasn’t answered any of my calls, or respond to any of my letters, or even to the candy-gram…and God only knows what happened to the kitten I got for him…cause he definitely didn't keep it, and I know for sure I am not raising the goddamn thing.

-Why do women want to date guys who have experience? Why aren’t women going after guys who have never had any experience with a woman before, whose closest experience was the one time his dentist leaned so far over her chair that her boob almost knocked him in the face and he went home and told all his friends he got to second base during a root canal? I think all girls should want to have sex with virgins... I think a guy’s first time might be his best time too. You think that too right? Don’t you? Well I knew it… you know what? I knew that you'd react that way and I knew that you would want to lead him through his first sexual encounter will all the compassion and care that someone would give to their soulmate.


-Because I said so! I already mentioned on numerous occasions that I may not be the marrying type! Can't you understand! Do we all have to settle down? I don’t even like the phrase settling down. I don’t want to settle and especially not down. But then here comes all these boys who are wondering what I am doing for the rest of my life. Do you ever wonder how somebody could even like you? The biggest problem in marriage is that he wants me around. And I can't even accept that? I don't think I can accept pure love. Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond… only it doesn't last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.

Over the weekend at a lovely little place some people like to call, "New Jersey", at a wedding for my old college roommate, I did the unthinkable and actually dove in to catch the bouquet. According to one of the bridesmaids I apparently turned around and said something along the lines of, "Out of my way bitches," as I ran in to get it.

The irony of it is that marriage is not in the picture anytime soon for me. In actuality, as much as I date, I am starting to think as each year goes by I understand less and less about men. I used to know a lot about them, a few years back I remember thinking men were a breeze, a Final Exam in Division 101 when I had already aced Calculus. In second grade there was a boy named Tommy who used to follow me around on the playground. He was always trying to sit with me and talk to me, until one day he tried to cut me on the monkey bars and I had a big girl name Elsa go over and pull him off by the ankles until he finally let go and plunged face first into a pile of sand. Tommy didn't follow me around too much after that.

There is this scene in the movie Picture Perfect where Jennifer Aniston is standing in a marble bathroom yelling to her friend, "I don't get what went wrong...things were so simple for so long, I liked men, men liked me..but somewhere in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up..."

Every year I understood a little bit more than I do now, so essentially if I date myself all the way back to being a fetus I was in complete control right around embryo stage.

There are certain things I get such as; going out, talking to boys, going to dinners... then right after that is about when I get completely lost. It is as though after the first few dates suddenly I have wandered into some unknown desert where I am walking around holding a sandy map and a broken compass going, "wasn't I just on a main road about 2 blocks ago...?"

My last relationship, less than a year ago, was with a boy named John who tried to take me home to meet his mom and dad...after we had been dating for one week. John actually wanted to have a "real relationship" and do things like...talk about our feelings...the kinda crap that makes my stomach churn. I remember he almost cried when we rented the movie 'Serendipity" together, I still get nauseous just thinking about it.

And yet on the other hand when I date guys who only show interest in seeing what kind of comforter and sheets I own, I cant help but think I am at a loss. How did I end up on this road? Where is the middle ground? Why can't I get rest somewhere on the divider? I like men, men like me, but in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up...now if I could only find my way out of this desert...

The last time I visited a well known WJ, or whore-joint as it is known to the Bible followers, I was halfway through my Corona when I looked around and thought, “Wow, I look pretty…mature…for this crowd.” Every girl in there was wearing her sorority t-shirt and daring her Delta-Gamma-UV-Ray sisters to hop on the bar with her to perform that dance routine they learned to Christina Agulera’s Diiirty. All I could think was, “You will never be able to dance in those shoes! You need good comfort shoes… with insoles like mine! And why are your jeans so tight! Those are some damn tight jeans ladies!”

Did Mel Gibson take off his loin cloth in Braveheart? NO!

ahh Mel, such a brave warrior

There is a time in every young woman’s life when she learns skills passed on from generations. Skills like cooking a turkey, changing a tire, finding a strange man’s bathroom in the dark
half-cocked running through a hallway in your bra top…essentially the usual…But beyond, cooking and cleaning and using a Swiss army knife for… well for whatever you use those things for I don’t know...one skill I would like to pass on to a younger generation is ‘The Freeze’. ‘The Freeze’ may help you survive in the wild jungle world, where men are allowed to roam free and are not tied up inside metal cages, such as they do in civil places with funny names like, “Alabama”.

Is this so wrong...Or so very very right

Scene: You are at a bar, with your friends, drinking the finest Pabst's Blue Ribbon they have on tap, dancing along to Salt-n-Peppa (or Pepp-ER as us white people like to say, HOLL-ER) when you see him, “Mr. Black Lee Jeans” , it like a scary movie you can't stop from playing, he is about to come over and go in for the ass-hump-dance all men instinctively do (it’s like fish knowing how to swim, men know how to ass hump) this when you do what I like to call, ‘The Freeze’.

No no, that is actually not me, I am sorry for any confusion that might cause

She was bikini clad, covered in oil, tanner then a Mexican laying on a piece of tinfoil and staring down at me with her 36 DD’s.

“Ah yes, that one!” I smiled, as he handed over to me the new, fresh issue of GQ .
I remember the first time I bought a men’s magazine I told my friend, “What better way to learn about men then by reading men’s magazines?”

“Well Kim,” She said. “You could actually date a man to learn about men.”

“No, no, no, no!" I yelled. “What kind of gibberish is that! Listen, I don’t have time for dirty socks and wiping away tears and potty training…I don’t have time to ‘date a man’ , I have work and a life and a serious cocaine habit to keep up with!”

When I started reading the actual magazine, I remember opening the crisp pages only to find something that I can only describe as shocking, disturbing and something that truly upset me to the core...there were articles about …wait for it…wait for it….feelings (who?)…
depression (what?).. social pressure (when?)...and anxiety(where?)…I thought maybe I had picked up a decoy GQ by accident. What the hell was I reading?! Men have e-motions? And feel-ings? BLASPHEMY!

Instead of articles on the predicted jock-itch, pictures of naked people dancing and Crayola drawings of superman and penises…there were actual words... words that contains letters... and these ‘words’ sometimes formed into sentences…were men actual human beings? Humans who bled? And felt things? And cared about actual things…such as, people? I couldn’t believe it! I can’t believe it! I shant believe it!