There was a guy who constantly asked me to hang out to which I constantly turned him down. He just wasn’t my type in a “count how many abs I have” sort of way.

One day he asked if I wanted to see his friends’ band play with his friends. Me, feeling like an asshole for turning him down repeatedly, thought a friendly hang out wouldn’t kill me. I mean, his friends would be there. How bad could it be?

I arrive at his apartment because there was no way in hell I was letting him find out where I lived.

I Ring the doorbell wishing I was buzzed already to deal with him.

“Heyyy” for what seems like two hours.

He kisses me on the cheek. Friends do that right?

“Wow. You look nice.” Friends compliment right? Did he just sniff my hair? Lord.

I walk in and sudden silence occurred amongst his roommates and friends. I was worried I forgot to put a shirt on because they were just staring in silence.

“Hi?” Awkward.

We hung out for a bit and then mingled. I had more in common with everyone else than I did him.

Talking to him was like talking to my hand.

“What’s journalism exactly? I majored in awesome in college. I have basically no body fat.”
I needed a timeout, or a sling shot. I went inside where his roommate who happened to look like my teenage dream, Brandon Boyd, was playing his guitar and singing.

Did I do something to deserve punishment? Why am I not hanging out with this guy?

Sliding glass door flys open. He found me, shit. He sits down next to me, and by next to me, I mean basically on me.

“What song is that bro?”

Ugh, how do you not know Eric Clapton. Stop’re ruining my daydream about your roommate.

We  finally leave and take the longest drive ever. He was buzzed and fist pumping out the window. Help.

I was sitting in the backseat with his friend's girlfriend when I noticed the two guys to two girls ratio. Amazing. I like his friends. I’m just going to stand in the middle of them all night, even though they’re a couple and it will be weird. For them, not me.

An hour later I go to the bathroom. Wondering how long I can hide in there, I call my friend who tells me she would come get me. No, that’s dick.

I go to the bar and order a drink. Solitude. Oh, just kidding. I turn around and there he is. How does he find me so fast?

“I wanted to get you a drink since this is our first date,” he says with googly eyes and a baby voice.

Excuse me what? First date? Maybe if I swallow my straw, I’ll choke and I can end this all right now. No, he’d probably be the first to start CPR on me.

“I’ll get you a drink next time we’re out.”

Next time? Is this like one of those Lifetime movies where the girl goes on a date and because she’s not into it, he leads her to a dark alley at the end of the night and kills her?
Why aren’t my drinks working? It’s like my body is retaliating alcohol.

Insert awkward moment his friends take a cigarette break and he tries kissing me in which I turn my head like “I didn’t know” and he gets a mouthful of hair.

Also note how he wouldn't stop playing with my hair.

Stop touching me.

We leave. Hallelujah.

They drop me off at my car. He gets out too.

Here we go.

Why is the car leaving?

“So…” he said with a smirk leaning against my car like he’s a drunk cast member on the Real World.

“Well, I will talk to you later and thank you!”



“Don’t I get a kiss?”

Are you kidding me? What to say, what to say. Say something Jessica.

“Uh, anticipate the future?”

That's what I said? I am such a misleading bitch; I'm definitely condemned to what will be hell on earth: a loveless life.

“Please, please, please. Come on. I deserve one. Come onnnnn.”

He’s begging now? He deserves this? I have to go.

I finally escape.

Of course, he thought we really hit it off that night. He also continued to text me as if we were in a committed relationship all too often proceeding the “date.”

The Troubador is now ruined for me and he still doesn't know what Journalism is.

Creepy photo brought to you by Charlie Sheen

"Some guy told me I was so beautiful that it made him want to be a serial rapist."


There is a word women use too causally to describe a lot of male behavior: the word is creepy.

It’s a term that’s abused and used frivolously in the least proper ways.

Wearing socks with sandals isn’t technically creepy; a guy who video tapes you while you sleep is creepy.

I'm guilty of saying it. I try really hard to make sure when I consider someone creepy, he's truly being a creep. You have to earn the title.

So what’s the difference between flat out creepy behavior and not?

Creepy behavior is answering a text with "who is this?" and receiving a picture of a shirtless guy who looks like “the situation” pointing to himself in the mirror and smiling. Don't answer that, unless he's your boyfriend. If there weren't such things as textually transmitted diseases before, there are now.

Creepy behavior is not receiving a text from an old friend or someone you met who YOU gave your number to. Don’t blame him, blame the Grey Goose you had last night.

It is a guy who completely interrupts your night out with friends while you’re in the midst of a conversation, lingers at your table even if no one is talking to him and later introduces himself to your other friends who arrive late as if he came with your friends: clinger alert.

It is not a guy who politely approaches you and your friends at a bar during an opportune moment (like when you aren’t in deep conversation about your personal life or manic depressive state you’ve been in lately and why are you talking about that in a bar anyway?). If you don’t want to be approached, go hang out at library.

It is approaching you and your friends and asking what your bra size is, if you like it from behind and if it hurt when you fell from heaven. And he’s serious.

It is not asking how you are, what you do and what your interests are.

It is making crude jokes about bananas, comparing them to "himself" and then asking for your number while in the produce section.

It is not striking up a conversation about fruit just because. People are friendly sometimes. Shocking, I know.

It is dropping by unexpectedly because you didn’t answer 14 of his phone calls.

It is not dropping by unexpectedly when he knows you're sick or being held hostage because you have disclosed the information in a nonchalant, non-direct invite sort of way.

It is when a stranger calls you out for not wanting to give a guy like him--homeless--a chance and basically drop your pants because he called you beautiful. In public. In the middle of 40 plus people.

It is not a stranger saying you’re attractive and carrying on his merry way. Take the compliment and say thank you. Don’t be a bitch.

It is mentioning a conversation you had with your brother on your brothers’ page who he’s not friends with and technically doesn't know of his existence because you haven't mentioned him before. That’s stalking.

It is not mentioning something he saw you post on Facebook (he’s not stalking you; you just publicly disclose where you “check in” every 30 minutes. Get over yourself).

If it's genuine, it's not creepy. At least until it involves someone on Megan’s Law.

This guy tells me about his most memorable pick-up on a lady

Girls walk into a bar.

The night is young, my vision is clearer than it will be, my friends are still coherent, I remember my last name at this point, and no one is crying or throwing up yet; so far, so good.

Wait, did I just step on glass and did someone just spill their drink on me? It's only 10 p.m. What the hell? I'm not drunk enough for this.

Of course, the only open spot at the bar was next to "dude alone at bar." I wait for lady bartender to come to me but she’s busy adjusting her shirt in front of all the guys.

He stares, then looks away, stares again then looks away. I watch in the corner of my eye but have no intention of looking because I know if I do, I'm screwed.

Would this bartender hurry up? Seriously lady, stop serving all the guys.

(Please don't say anything to me, please don't say anything to me.)

"Hi, I’m mike."

Damn it.

Jessica, be polite. He is asking where my friends are and where I’m sitting. Is it rude to scream “what? I can’t hear you, the music is too loud” while pointing at my ear and shaking one finger?
Lady bartender finally gets to me. I wanted vodka with my soda but whatever. I should of had "dude alone at bar" order it for me and then run.

30 minutes pass and it's that time where I have to use the bathroom.

Line: out the door.

The men's bathroom looks so inviting. There's no one in a line, or even inside. I stare in as the door opens and closes practically in slow motion while guys look at the pitiful line I'm in and laugh to themselves after being done in one minute.

Why do five girls have to go in the bathroom at once?

Finally, I get in. Why are public restrooms always so wet?

Now I’m waiting again while girl putting mascara on hovers over the only sink laughing uncontrollably and spilling the contents in her purse everywhere as she tells me she wants to fuck her boyfriends’ friend, “but shhhh don't tell anyone.” Who are you again?

15 minutes later.

I order another drink, this time ten stools away from "dude alone at bar." Finally, a guy is bartending. Of course he got to me quick and made it strong. Sexism is alive and well.

I will probably be on the floor after this but oh well, here's to Courtney Love.

Sitting with friends I notice a group of guys who are playing "stare but don't look obvious" with us. Not too bad, they look pretty good: no missing teeth and they have shoes on so they pass the preliminary test.

(Note to self, whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with creepy friend who is staring.)

Opps. I hate myself.

Five minutes later they walk over. I need to wear my glasses more often, only one of the five is decent.

Oh well. The Conversation is doable; I think I laughed a little but creepy friend is creepin’. Is that his foot on my leg? Is that his hand on my lower back?

Insert funny jokes and lies about professions here. "What are you guys doing after this?"

Oh, that question (deer in headlights look). I take another drink and turn it over to friend #1 who is really drunk.

I don't know what she said but she laughed like a little school girl so I think they got the hint.

"Can I get your number?" Wink.

"Sure can’t.” Smile.

He laughs at least.

It's almost 2 a.m. The drunk keep getting drunker. It’s like the Thriller video. There's “dude alone at bar.” Accidental eye contact again. I don't like myself when I drink.

Why do drunk girls request so much Britney Spears?

Three times they played her. Three times I shot myself in my head.

Girls leave bar.
Never trust a girl who

Since our society is full of double standards and I'm a woman, I'm allowed to say this: women are crazy, manipulative and weird.

I have front row tickets to the crazy show 365 days a year. I see the nutty things my kind does all the time and shit, sometimes I’m embarrassed. So here it is and I apologize if this hits too close to home for some.

Never trust a girl who:

Can’t hang with casual sex; if you don’t like her enough to bring her home to mom and dad or want to commit to her at some point, beware of having casual sex with her. She might sucker you into something you don’t want to get into. It might start off great, but you may end up in a world of hurt, or at least a world of a pain-in-the-ass girlfriend who thinks you two are peanut butter and jelly, but you think you're peanut butter and toothpaste.

Never trust a girl who said she was once on an episode of Maury with her ex. Just don’t.

Discloses her relationship status to you; she probably let you hit on her full throttle; buy her three drinks, rub her shoulders, offer to fly her and her friends to Miami for spring break and then she drops the bomb: she’s basically engaged. What a bitch. And she even put her hand on your leg. Tsk, tsk.

Posts innocuous and passive aggressive status updates on Facebook or Twitter to get your attention but really doesn’t want you to notice, but really does because you haven’t talked to her in a long time or are ignoring her and totally misses you, but won’t directly say it. She's got it bad.

Set’s you up to test your fidelity: You’re out with friends and suddenly a girl that’s Sofia Vergara hot starts hitting on you. Cut to five minutes later, she’s feeling your biceps and basically pudding in your hands. No, this isn't real life. She was hired. Your girls' got mad trust issues.

Posts that she’s “in a relationship” on Facebook but she’s not; okay, sometimes I want to tell people I’m a lesbian, asexual, married, engaged, in a relationship or dying in three weeks so I don't have time for dinner just to ward off unwanted attention, but I wouldn’t lie on Facebook about my personal life (at least I don’t think I would, I can’t rule it out I guess, I might hit rock bottom one day). Unless you’re in a witness protection program, there’s no need to do this. If she’s lying about that, are you sure that's her real name and age? Beware that she’s insecure as well. So what if you’re single, be confident.

After telling her your future desire to write a screenplay, move to Europe, buy a loft, settle down and get a dog, she quickly says that’s exactly what she wants to do as well with extreme enthusiasm. She’s got two things on her mind: marriage and her fatal obsession with you.

She cries when you try to break up with her or bring up some questionable behavior telling you things like she can't live without you and she will change. Don’t give in, be empathetic, but this will continue if you give in. If you want to break up with someone because you know it’s not working, don’t let the waterworks make you feel bad enough to stick it out.

You find pictures of yourself printed from your Facebook in her purse. This is weird even if you are in a relationship (unless you know about it, I guess).

So she might be hot, but if you’re asking if she’s nuts, of course she is. I told you so.
Lady in leotard brought to you by the 1980s

So I go to spin class sometimes and yes, spin class is exactly what you think it is. It's a room full of people who mean business. They don't just go to spin, they are spin.

They wear those cool biking shoes, snazzy attire; eat organic and natural yuppie things beforehand to give them optimal energy like apples dipped in flax seed and show up 20 minutes early to “get in the zone.”


Okay, maybe half the class is like this.

Usually I go later at night with a crowd involving people in their twenties who are trying to sweat off their weekend drinking binge, like myself, but tonight I decided to go to the 5:30 class due to time constraints.

I love the gym. It's kind of like the DMV because you get a bunch of weirdo’s—I mean people— in one place at the same time and you never know what you’re going to see.

I knew going at 5:30 was going to be a hot mess because that’s when everyone gets off work. That’s when those self-entitlement people who walk in in their business suits with duffle bags full of expensive gear go. But whatever, it was a hot mess I mentally prepared myself for.

It was no surprise any of this happened tonight:

I’m pretty sure Gloria Estefan instructed the class tonight. Or at least someone who failed at Spanish singing and dancing as her career and took the next best thing.

Not only was she screaming into her mic (the kind pop stars wear on their face) the whole time with a high pitch "woo," but she was walking around the room (which in my time at these classes, they stay where they belong on their bikes) getting in our faces with her Spanish accent and swaying her body like J.Lo. I don’t know what she was doing.

Along with that BS, she was playing the worst music known to man. I felt like I was visiting a graveyard of trance pop music. No one should redo Rihanna or Lady Gaga and by no one, I mean you guy who sings like Whitney Houston.

At least the other chick who instructs humored me with some loud and aggressive rock. I know the guy next to me with plugs and his septum pierced was cursing himself to hell but too scared of looking like a big baby if he left.

One chick was there with headphones on and completely doing her own thing. Physically, she was there. Mentally, she was riding the Tour de France. I was waiting for her to high five air quote Lance Armstrong air quote.

Then there was the guy who was channeling his inner Kobe, hence his Lakers shoes, Lakers Jersey, Lakers shorts-- i don't know why he didn't wear his paint—and talking to himself the whole time while watching himself in the mirror.

How could I forget the person who had to do everything harder than everyone else making me feel lazy? When Gloria told us to increase resistance once, he went up four; and stood up; and used no hands; and did a summersault.

What the heck dude?

There was also the lady in the back who had to agree with everything Gloria said, shout back her enthusiasm, cheer, clap, do the “woo,” sigh loudly, grunt, you name it. Gloria loved her “spirit.”

Then, the not-so-unthinkable happened: Gloria played Selena. I knew it was coming. I don't know what held her back from singing like the pop star she was in her silver spandex but she fought it. That surprised me. Nothing else.

I think I will stick to my washed up twenties crowd who show up late, unmotivated and smelling like regret.

To the shirtless guy with no head:

Wow to you too.

This has to be the nicest yet most erotic message I have ever received on Facebook.


Where did you learn how to talk to women? Also, where did you get those white jeans?

How am I single you ask? Only because I've been waiting for a man of your stature and charm to come along. Lucky me, the day has finally come.

I was going to blur your picture too but I think your tan muscles should be shared with the world.

I want women everywhere to see what I will soon have in my arms. They are going to be so jealous.

So, do you want to meet up somewhere dark and mysterious and talk about romantic things? I've always wanted to be tamed.



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