Trainwrecks.

I think I'm just drawn to women with highly publicized, insane, drug-ridden trainwreck lives.

I literally only use MySpace to keep up with Courtney Love's incoherent yet adorable blog/rants, and I stopped voraciously devouring what Perez reports because he puts down Amy Winehouse.

Maybe these girls' outrageous lifestyles so far surpass my own chaos that I feel better when comparing my life to theirs. Maybe Courtney's inability to move on from Kurt Cobain (and who would be able to move on, let's face it, Kurt is my ideal guy) minimizes my issues with finally getting over my ex. Perhaps poor Amy's distance from her husband (you know, given that he's in jail) helps me cope with the fact that I'm far from the "open" relationship I'm currently wrapping my head around.

Or maybe the moments when these women are strongest reminds me that we girls have the ability to overcome even the most ridiculous scandals or obstacles.

Because in the end, no matter how many times our beloved Ms. Love shows off her lady bits when falling over drunk, or how often Amy's handlers prevent her from playing a show due to a breakdown or total drug-induced disability, those girls just keep on truckin'.

Courtney's always wearing amazing Givenchy or Versace. She was a feminist riot grrrl icon in her day. Amy just keeps making music that (like it or not) gets quite a bit of airplay. She's been nominated for Grammys, too. They refuse to quit, no matter the adversity.

And don't even get me started on that Britney Spears.

Oh Good, Another Boob Joke

This week I was hanging out with a few guy friends, one of whom is doing a research project on body proportions. He's taking ages, heights, arm lengths, yadda yadda and seeing what he comes up with from all this data. He asked me if he could measure my arms and hands and forearms and whatever, and I said sure.

While he was measuring my wingspan (which just made me laugh) his buddy looked at me and says "Thirty-four." Being a little bit thick, I said "What?" He repeated it. Finally, it clicked, and I told him to stop looking at my tits.

The friend laughed and said "Am I right?" I frowned and teold him I don't know, I haven't bought a bra in a while. He told me he's gotten another girl's exactly right and he wants to know. I told him not to pad his ego and then I checked.

Of course he was right.

Re: Why I'm Not a Hooker

Let me just begin by saying that I completely respect anyone working in the sex industry, be it stripping, turning tricks, a Playboy bunny, a porn star, whatever you do. As a feminist (and I'm sure other feminists might not back me on this) I think it's a great symbol of female empowerment that we can make men pay for sex. It might just be my twisted self-esteem, but knowing that some guy is slobbering and whacking it to me (or thoughts of me) feels pretty damn good. But I digress.

There's one key reason I am not nor could ever be a hooker, and that is this. I hate planned sex.

There's something that makes me feel skeevy about saying "Hey, if you come hang out with me Friday I'll bang you" and then following suit. I get performance anxiety, or something. This exact issue is why one of my male friends isn't speaking to me currently. 

He's been wanting to bang me for ages, and I turned him down to date him because he simply is not my type. He flipped the fuck out, saying that that line was "the biggest bullshit a girl could ever come up with" and a few other tasty things. I rolled my eyes, blogged about it, then moved on.

We started hanging out again, and I realized exactly  how much he reminds me of my exboyfriend. Not a healthy thing to be hanging out with, or something I particularly wanted to do anyway. My exboyfriend's a douche, and I don't like douches. One day we were hanging out in a park near where he lives, and it occurred to me that the way he was acting towards me, and the way I was responding, made us look like we were dating. Some idiot part of my brain clicked in and said "why not?" so I told him I'd probably end up sleeping with him.

Then, a few weeks later, after incessant calls, the annoyed slut part of me turned on, and said "If you come down here Friday and use up your gas instead of mine for a change, I'll sleep with you."

Here's the bit where disaster struck.

During the week I tried out telling a few people "Yeah, Friday night I'm finally getting laid" and it almost sounded okay. Then the entirety of Friday I spent driving around, hunting for a good spot to have a quick car shag that wasn't my house (roommates home). I find one that's mostly suitable, and get the call that my friend/potential fuckbuddy is at the exit, lost. Armed with five condoms stashed in various hidey-holes of my wallet, I drive off to meet him.

At which point I immediately remember that he is (a) a more awkward incarnation of my ex and (b) not my type. But I decide to press on, and start leading him off in the direction of a place to go and fuck.

Somehow while driving around, I realize there's just no way to initiate this, he's that awkward. So I play creepy Goth girl and drive to a cemetery, hoping that the dead and my creepiness will kill his libido. Sadly, I'm wrong, but I figured it was worth a shot. After we wander around, looking at headstones, and I sharply rebuke his efforts to flirtatiously touch me, it starts to get dark, and he wants to relocate to somewhere to fuck. I try a few lame excuses which fall flat, and then I even text a friend in an attempt to get pulled away for a girl emergency.

Finally he gets pissy, because he's mad he drove all the way down here and walked round a graveyard for no reason (obviously my company isn't enough) and I drive off like a bat out of hell to get away from him. Let him get lost in downtown, for all I care.

It just drives me insane because I don't come off that slutty. It aggravates me that he explicitly wanted sex. I know, he's a guy, I'm a cute girl, he expects it of me, but please. I also know I said it. But there was just something so inherently wrong with the entire situation that there was no way (and deep down, he had to know this) I'd go through with it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a fan of drunken (or at least slightly inebriated)  hookups. If it starts with kissing and leads into whatever, okay, fine, I'll bite. But saying "Hey, come over and let's have sex!" makes me feel awkward. Maybe I just have stage fright. Maybe it's the spontaneity that gets me hot and bothered. Either way, I have major issues with telling someone I'll fuck them on a specific date and time. Which is why, my little awkward friend, I did not have wild crazy bitch sex with you. It's not you, it's me.

And now, your regularly scheduled high school-esque drama.

So last night my exboyfriend (who is in college) escorted a girl to her junior prom. This girl has been obsessed with him forever, including but not limited to when I dated him. Except then I was around to say "step the fuck off, bitch."

At any rate, they go to the prom. He immediately begins texting me, telling me how miserable he is, why can't he say no, etc, etc. I go to the Grand March at the high school with a few girlfriends because I know a senior who's going, and he keeps texting me FROM THE GRAND MARCH. If I was that junior girl I'd have shot him.

So he gets up on the stage, walks around with the girl, whatever. He's got this huge douchebag swagger and then his face is pure misery. My friend and I start to about piss ourselves laughing. He's still texting me when he lines up on the sides.

Finally he says "I think your friend doesn't like me." This is the senior who's going to the prom too. I replied "really. you think?" because that girl has made it plain from day 1 she can't stand him. He says "yeah. what's her beef?" I pause for half a second, then drop the bombshell: "she thinks you cheated on me."

I worked last night, and (in between giving the singer of the band the eye) I texted him telling him if he needed to escape prom madness, he could come to work to hang out, since my job was down the street from the hotel the prom was at.

He hasn't texted me since, but I saw on the junior girl's Facebook that prom was miserable for her. 

A messy breakup story for Sunday morning.

I have a Saturday night drama, but in order to tell that story I have to tell this one.

My ex and I had a hella messy breakup, and basically this is why.

About a year into our relationship, he had to move a few hours away. I was sad, he was sad, he promised to phone all the time, he'd see me whenever he could, all that. 

A few months after that, he phones me to break up. I'm sad, I cry, he makes a few idiotic decisions. First, he phones my father to tell him I might be suicidal over the loss of him. When my daddy tells him he should hold responsibility for that, the ex flies off the handle and says it isn't his responsibility or his fault how I feel anymore. 

Then, he decides that to ease the pain of losing him, he's going to delete me off Facebook, MySpace, whatever, block me on messenger, and also screen my calls/texts, in the event that I did call or text him.

This is the point when that Emotionless Handjob wanders into my life. The E.H. is a mutual friend of the ex and I, and before things had gotten physical he'd asked me about the ex. I said I knew absolutely nothing, I was being ignored, whatever. E.H. tells me the ex had been bragging to him about sleeping with an Asian chick. The glaring problem here is that he would have had to do the Asian either (a) when we were dating, (b) immediately afterward, or (c) he's full of shit.

My friend gets wind of this, and freaks the fuck out, because not only did he break up with me on the phone, BUT he may possibly have cheated on me too! She begins to hate him even more than she did when we were dating.

Ages after he first starts to ignore me, he sends me a Facebook message asking how my year's going. Completely confused, I tell him it's fine, ask him how he is, whatever. I'm not going to be a bitch to him because  of something I heard from an unreliable source. The friend is pissed he has the audacity to talk to me, life goes on. Then he starts texting me again. Regularly. For long periods at a time. I shrug it off, try to keep it to a minimum, and childishly label him "Fucker" in my mobile contacts.

And so it goes. We keep our distance, it all goes fine. There was a close brush a bit ago, when I went to a neighbouring city for an hour and he was there and called the kid I was with to hang out. It was hella awkward for the poor sod I was with, too. I ran away so as not to see him (I was sick and not totally hot) and that was that.

AWKRD Radio, who's this?

I have recently become a legend on local radio.

(note: I'm not telling you guys my real name, just in case you know me.)

I rung a local radio station (they ask you to ring and vote between two songs and one caller wins a prize) and when the DJ asked my name, I replied. His answer? "That's my favourite female name." Oh yeah? "Yeah, because all girls I've met with that name have been hot. Are you hot?"

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. Here it comes.

At any rate, I didn't win the tickets that night, but I tried again the next night, only to be greeted joyously. "Is this hot (my name here)?!" Yep, that's me.

My boss and my friend's sister both heard this exchange. I walked into work as my boss yelled "I heard you on the radio!!!" Facepalm.

And here's where it starts to get insanely bizarre, and an accurate portrayal of my life.

The next time I called (they were giving away a free CD of your choice) he asked me what my favourite male name was. I responded that I had a few, and he goes "Wow. You're loose." And that was where he cut off the clip on the air. Now I'm loose. Excellent.

Then I met the guy at a music festival the radio station sponsored, and we took a few pictures together, which became my Facebook profile picture. When I came up to him and said "I'm Hot ___!" he goes "YEAH you are!!" Fabulous.

Five seconds after the picture goes up, my friend comments it. That's her old neighbour. Of course it is.

I Facebook friend the guy, and he comments my picture too, saying something to the effect of "hellz yeah!!"

I just called in again to win a CD tonight, and the DJ shot the shit with me for a bit. He was all amped that we were Facebook friends, and then, during our little chitchat, he said "Tell me something I don't know." And I said "I think you used to be my friend's neighbour." He told me he was, and then this happened:

"Yeah, it was awkward because her window was right next to my bedroom window."

"Did you used to smoke pot? Because we could smell it in her room."

"Shut your front door."

"That's what you get for calling me loose."

He went on to describe how he did "smoke the left handed cigarette," and tell me to send his love to my friend and her family, because he missed them.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time, mates. All the time. 

Let's add "radio fame" and "weed chats with DJ's" to the list of things I have accomplished in my life.

(ps. I didn't win.)

Which crazy bitch am I?

You completed the quiz "Which crazy bitch are you?" with the result Courtney Love.

You are one wild bitch. You love trouble and trouble loves you. You like to have a good time and won't let anyone get in your way. Sometimes you seem like you are perpetually trapped in a childhood mentality and you take alot of flack from alot of people for your carefree ways. Nevertheless you care alot about the people close to you and if anyone messes with you or the ones you love, you will fuck them up. You can rock out with the best of them and won't let anyone tell you otherwise. You are this perfect balance between girly chick and tough chick. You are blatantly honest and sometimes people can find this a little hard to take but you really don't give a shit.

Of course. That would be the result I get.