Gentle Reader, I had a very entertaining and eye-opening experience last weekend. I was in Charleston, SC visiting my father. Their air conditioners apparently put out twice the cold air of the ones in Georgia. Even though I try to masturbate at least twice daily, apparently when you get to 30, your balls have begun to get a little on the heavy side. I wear boxers, and that apparently doesn't give my junk the proper support that it so truly deserves. So as I am taking a nice long shower, my balls begin to drop it like it's hot. As I go to pull back the curtain and step out, that's when it happens. That arctic cold hit me, and I could literally hear my balls snap back to attention and jump up to hit me right in the taint. That is some serious recoil. I think it's time to go to boxer-briefs at the very least.
Today, let us journey into one of the few relationships I haven't touched on. She was a little bit off, which is the nicest way I can think of to say the two things she loved the most was to snort coke and suck cock. She found me on myspace, which pretty much dates this relationship, and claimed that we went to school together. Those who know me, can attest that my last name doesn't just pop up in just any old high school. So now we are starting off with a lie. If that wasn't the first red flag, the first one should have been the fact that she was a fucking mouth-breather. You all know these idiots, sitting there all slack-jawed, looking stupid, forgetting what their nose is for. Mouth wide open, sucking in wasted air, like they are in a fly-catching contest. If this doesn't alert you to mild retardation, nothing will. I once thought I had impregnated a mouth-breather. My first response was to tell her to meet me at the top of a flight of stairs. Luckily for all of us, it was a false alarm.
She was of Italian descent, which means she was genetically engineered to make a good tomato sauce and to know how to take a good punch. I never hit her, but after tasting her sauce, I regretted that decision. The "Italian Stallion" was a coke-head. It was all that mattered to her. I once let her borrow my Nintendo, so that her daughter could play with it. Next time I got in her car, I asked her why two of my games were laying in the back floorboard. She said those were the two the pawnshop didn't want. Question one. Why the hell are we talking about what the pawnshop DIDN'T want? Question two. Why the hell would they not want "Contra" and "Super Mario 3?" Question three, four, etc.... Why in the hell did you sell my Nintendo, fucking powder-hound? Did you even get enough money to support your habit for the drive home? And, again, why in the HELL did they not want "Super Mario Bros. 3?" This Nintendo was in pristine condition. Nevertheless, the "Italian Stallion" sold it for a twenty-sack. I mean, you didn't even have to blow in the games, thump the cartridge in the g-spot, wipe the entire room down with alcohol swabs, or play while wearing a Haz-Mat suit.
A good rule of thumb; never date a girl you have to piss for. I know relationships are based on mutual compromise, but if I have to save all of my urine in a microwave-safe-bowl in exchange for you busting out Reverse Cowgirl later that night, I think I would prefer to just rub one out. As humbling as it is to know that my piss alone can keep you out of prison, I think I need a little more out of life. The last I heard, she somehow still had custody of her daughter. So, she either cleaned herself up, found a new bladder to provide for her, or they started selling drug-free piss on Amazon. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
6/27/2011
6/21/2011
Bookworms, Bimbos, and Baby-Steps
Gentle Reader, I come to you today with an open heart and honesty. I am, if nothing else, a lost soul. This will not be what most of you are expecting. It probably won't even make you laugh at all. Feel free to close this out now if you thought I might give you a good laugh today. I won't. Those of you still with me, I pity you for reading this. If you have been reading, you know everything that I have been through. A lot of which, I brought upon myself with poor decisions and even shittier execution. I have failed time after time with relationship after relationship. I haven't had a girlfriend since Thanksgiving. This is the longest period of time I have spent alone since I could achieve an erection. You laugh, but it's the truth. I have never been one to walk alone. I depended on women for my own happiness. I needed their approval to feel complete; to define my self-worth.
I was a whore, in the truest sense of the word. I gave myself away for a few moments of pleasure because I thought that made me better than the other guys out there. The more women I could sleep with, the better man that made me. It did no such thing. It has led me astray countless times. Getting all of this out of my system, and reading it back to myself has been a learning experience for me. I have taken baby-steps to being a better man along the way. Taking one thing from this failed relationship, and taking something else from another. This is what I want. This is what I don't want. I guess I am a slow learner, or maybe I have just never met the one that will change my world forever. I know now that it was my insecurity that gave birth to Captain Save-A-Ho. Being myself was never enough. I felt like I had to pull someone out of a hole that they couldn't get out of themselves, and their gratitude for what I did would be what would keep them here with me. Throw money at them, and they will have to love me. They might love you, but they will never be in love with you. I met a couple women along the way who gave me their number, but I didn't even feel worthy enough to be with them. So, I didn't call.
One of the things I have learned is that I could never be with a bimbo. If you talk endlessly about yourself and all of the meaningless things you have done, how cute your boyfriend is, then you aren't the one for me. I don't care that you bought a new bathing suit or the fact that your mom only called you twice this week, instead of the regular three times. Cry me a fucking river. Shallow does not suit anyone. It is a symptom of insecurity. If you have to tell me that your significant other is attractive, I think you are missing the point. I'm not saying that there can't be attraction, but I hope that attraction can be built upon things other than looks alone. Instead, tell me how amazing he makes you feel about yourself. About how you have never felt so loved. That I could understand. See, I live my life inside my own head. I have a brain that never stops and my thoughts, my hopes, and my dreams are what make me who I am. I need someone who can at least think for themselves.
I dig a girl that reads. Give me books over bikinis any day. A great conversation beats a perfect rack every day of the week. A great conversation leaves you thinking, laughing, and smiling for days afterwards. A great bikini just leaves you horny. If you don't read for fun, don't bother. I even read nerdy shit full of dragons, wizards, and parallel universes. Yep, that's how Miles rolls. Like Harry Potter with a hard-on. I have just found that a brain likes a brain that can keep up. So, yeah, I am a big fan of spelling, grammar, and past fucking participles. If you want to give me a try, go work on conjugating your verbs. Also, work on there, their, and they're. That shit makes you look ignorant when you get it wrong. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
I was a whore, in the truest sense of the word. I gave myself away for a few moments of pleasure because I thought that made me better than the other guys out there. The more women I could sleep with, the better man that made me. It did no such thing. It has led me astray countless times. Getting all of this out of my system, and reading it back to myself has been a learning experience for me. I have taken baby-steps to being a better man along the way. Taking one thing from this failed relationship, and taking something else from another. This is what I want. This is what I don't want. I guess I am a slow learner, or maybe I have just never met the one that will change my world forever. I know now that it was my insecurity that gave birth to Captain Save-A-Ho. Being myself was never enough. I felt like I had to pull someone out of a hole that they couldn't get out of themselves, and their gratitude for what I did would be what would keep them here with me. Throw money at them, and they will have to love me. They might love you, but they will never be in love with you. I met a couple women along the way who gave me their number, but I didn't even feel worthy enough to be with them. So, I didn't call.
One of the things I have learned is that I could never be with a bimbo. If you talk endlessly about yourself and all of the meaningless things you have done, how cute your boyfriend is, then you aren't the one for me. I don't care that you bought a new bathing suit or the fact that your mom only called you twice this week, instead of the regular three times. Cry me a fucking river. Shallow does not suit anyone. It is a symptom of insecurity. If you have to tell me that your significant other is attractive, I think you are missing the point. I'm not saying that there can't be attraction, but I hope that attraction can be built upon things other than looks alone. Instead, tell me how amazing he makes you feel about yourself. About how you have never felt so loved. That I could understand. See, I live my life inside my own head. I have a brain that never stops and my thoughts, my hopes, and my dreams are what make me who I am. I need someone who can at least think for themselves.
I dig a girl that reads. Give me books over bikinis any day. A great conversation beats a perfect rack every day of the week. A great conversation leaves you thinking, laughing, and smiling for days afterwards. A great bikini just leaves you horny. If you don't read for fun, don't bother. I even read nerdy shit full of dragons, wizards, and parallel universes. Yep, that's how Miles rolls. Like Harry Potter with a hard-on. I have just found that a brain likes a brain that can keep up. So, yeah, I am a big fan of spelling, grammar, and past fucking participles. If you want to give me a try, go work on conjugating your verbs. Also, work on there, their, and they're. That shit makes you look ignorant when you get it wrong. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
6/15/2011
The Pie Theory
Gentle Reader, I know I have been letting you down. It's been entirely too long since the last time we spoke. To make it up to you, I plan on bringing my "A" game today. I feel like this blog is giving me a bad reputation. Those of you out there that don't know me will obviously think I'm an asshole. That may be, but I can assure you that I'm also a complete gentleman. I even open the car door for a lady. Though while holding it open, I do say "Get in bitch." If that isn't a gentleman, I don't know what is. I know I seem like the alpha-male type that women are attracted to. Please don't try to start a relationship with me. Attempting that will be as big of a let-down as losing your virginity, except this time we will both be disappointed, instead of just you.
I have been having some minor health and emotional problems lately. These are the reasons for my absence. No need to worry, Gentle Reader, I will be fine. I think we all know by now that a woman will be the death of me. Illness doesn't stand a chance. I work night-shift, so it gives me a lot of time to live inside my own head. I did get to thinking about my life last night at work. How empty it feels sometimes without something real and substantial to fall back on when things aren't going my way. I thought, "Why can't I go home from work, like the rest of these guys, who leave work and go home to sleep with their wives?" It troubled me for a minute, before I realized that I was going to home to sleep with their wives too. Enjoy day-shift, I will enjoy drinking your beer and wearing your threadbare bathrobe you should have thrown away during the Clinton administration. And really, dude? A robe? Though I must say, Egyptian cotton feels nice against my skin.
Guys, it is now time to explain "The Pie Theory." This is why you can never get what you really need from a married woman. I know it sounds great.... in theory. No responsibility; no one to go home to and fight with. A random sexual encounter without having to cuddle with her afterwards. It's a pipe-dream. If it happens, it's a miracle. Unicorn, anyone? Imagine a pie...with one little slice missing out of the side. Her life that she has represents the pie; she has everything she will ever need inside this pie. She has her husband that loves her, kids that adore her, a good home, and a life she has worked hard to build. Somehow, something feels like it is missing. A few jokes "he" doesn't get, a few thoughts "he' doesn't want to hear. This is where you come in, fellas. You are the missing slice. You are the piece that makes it all complete. You are the first one to "really listen" to them in years. So, now they have everything that THEY will ever need. You have completed the circle. On the other hand, all you are left with is that little bit of happiness that the slice allows. As long as you can be that one little piece that their life is missing, they will continue to use you for that. Have more respect for yourself than I have in the past. Lesson learned. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
I have been having some minor health and emotional problems lately. These are the reasons for my absence. No need to worry, Gentle Reader, I will be fine. I think we all know by now that a woman will be the death of me. Illness doesn't stand a chance. I work night-shift, so it gives me a lot of time to live inside my own head. I did get to thinking about my life last night at work. How empty it feels sometimes without something real and substantial to fall back on when things aren't going my way. I thought, "Why can't I go home from work, like the rest of these guys, who leave work and go home to sleep with their wives?" It troubled me for a minute, before I realized that I was going to home to sleep with their wives too. Enjoy day-shift, I will enjoy drinking your beer and wearing your threadbare bathrobe you should have thrown away during the Clinton administration. And really, dude? A robe? Though I must say, Egyptian cotton feels nice against my skin.
Guys, it is now time to explain "The Pie Theory." This is why you can never get what you really need from a married woman. I know it sounds great.... in theory. No responsibility; no one to go home to and fight with. A random sexual encounter without having to cuddle with her afterwards. It's a pipe-dream. If it happens, it's a miracle. Unicorn, anyone? Imagine a pie...with one little slice missing out of the side. Her life that she has represents the pie; she has everything she will ever need inside this pie. She has her husband that loves her, kids that adore her, a good home, and a life she has worked hard to build. Somehow, something feels like it is missing. A few jokes "he" doesn't get, a few thoughts "he' doesn't want to hear. This is where you come in, fellas. You are the missing slice. You are the piece that makes it all complete. You are the first one to "really listen" to them in years. So, now they have everything that THEY will ever need. You have completed the circle. On the other hand, all you are left with is that little bit of happiness that the slice allows. As long as you can be that one little piece that their life is missing, they will continue to use you for that. Have more respect for yourself than I have in the past. Lesson learned. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
5/31/2011
Scorn, Horns, and Unicorns
Gentle Reader, I am supposed to be doing some traveling this fall/winter. I am allegedly going to Jamaica with a group of friends, since we are all turning 30 this year. I worry about the plane crashing. I wonder what would go through my mind during something like that. What would you do if you were on a plane and you see like the engine just fall off and then feel the plane start going down?.......... I think I would just start killing people. Just to see what it felt like to take a life before I lost mine. Ya know? I would just start snapping necks and grabbing tits. Next thing you know, you're standing in a pile of bodies, and knowing my luck, then you feel the plane straighten out and hear the captain say, "Sorry about that, folks. Little bit of turbulence there. Should be smooth sailing the rest of the way in."
I am going to go out on a limb today. We are going to discuss sex and relationships. What a shock? I'll alert the media. First off, a little advice for my lady-friends out there. If you get done having sex with a man, and he doesn't cuddle with you, then SEX was all it was. If he liked you at all, he would at least "spoon" for 15 minutes. If for no other reason, this would give him the option of coming back at a later date. If he just throws a towel at you afterwards, tells you to clean yourself up, and then starts putting his clothes back on, I am pretty sure a ring is not in your future. Post-sex behavior is just one example of how different guys and girls really are. Another example is the marriage proposal. Look at the difference in reactions between girls and guys when they find out a friend is getting married. Girls will just start screaming uncontrollably, jumping around, having spontaneous orgasms, and hugging each other like one of them just won a reality show. Totally different with guys. Let a dude tell his buddies he is getting married. That room goes as quiet as a funeral home. A group of men will turn instantly into Marines in battle, "MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN! What the fuck just happened? Get the FUCK OUT OF THERE! We need a chopper here NOW!" The problem is, both men and women are right at this point. Marriage is something to be completely celebrated and completely feared. It can simultaneously be the BEST and WORST thing that ever happened to someone. That's because people change. People grow in different ways, and then they end up growing apart. They can both enter into it totally in love with one another, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
Finding two twenty-somethings with a good marriage is like stumbling across a unicorn in the meadow, or a girl that knows how to suck on balls. All three are mythical creatures. Most girls treat a man's testicle like she intends on pulling it right out of the sack. Right then. Right there. No man wants to look down and see his scrotum stretched to it's limits while you look like you are trying to tear off a piece of beef jerky. Those fuckers are hardwired in ladies. Just a heads-up. If you don't know your way around down there, either just leave it alone or ask for written instructions. 'Cause shit can go downhill in a hurry down there. I mean, that's how I make my money, so don't fuck with my finances. Also, a tip for the fellas. Keep an ear out while things are getting sexual with your lady. To know what she really likes, without having to ask her (since she's not going to tell you shit anyway), listen for her to say "Oh My God." Not just say it, but she has to say it like it's a fucking question. Like she doesn't know where she is, and doesn't understand what the hell is even going on anymore. That shit needs a lilt at the end of the sentence. Like, "oh my...OH my....oh, oh, Ohh My GOD??" When she turns it into a question, you know you're in there like swimwear.
Men don't need a lot, ladies. A real horny man doesn't even need a hole. All he needs is a crease. The back of the knee, an arm-pit, or even right under the chin. If you're skinny enough, he will even fuck your shoulder-blades. So stop trying to analyze us, ladies. We are simple creatures. Don't think ten steps ahead, because we haven't made it past what we are going to do to you later. What we say is what we mean. If we tell you that you look beautiful, it doesn't mean we want to fuck your sister. Let that shit go. It only happened once, anyway, and she and I were both drunk. If we break up, you are just going to go after my brother or one of my friends anyway, just to get back at me. Sorry, got lost in the past there for a moment. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
I am going to go out on a limb today. We are going to discuss sex and relationships. What a shock? I'll alert the media. First off, a little advice for my lady-friends out there. If you get done having sex with a man, and he doesn't cuddle with you, then SEX was all it was. If he liked you at all, he would at least "spoon" for 15 minutes. If for no other reason, this would give him the option of coming back at a later date. If he just throws a towel at you afterwards, tells you to clean yourself up, and then starts putting his clothes back on, I am pretty sure a ring is not in your future. Post-sex behavior is just one example of how different guys and girls really are. Another example is the marriage proposal. Look at the difference in reactions between girls and guys when they find out a friend is getting married. Girls will just start screaming uncontrollably, jumping around, having spontaneous orgasms, and hugging each other like one of them just won a reality show. Totally different with guys. Let a dude tell his buddies he is getting married. That room goes as quiet as a funeral home. A group of men will turn instantly into Marines in battle, "MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN! What the fuck just happened? Get the FUCK OUT OF THERE! We need a chopper here NOW!" The problem is, both men and women are right at this point. Marriage is something to be completely celebrated and completely feared. It can simultaneously be the BEST and WORST thing that ever happened to someone. That's because people change. People grow in different ways, and then they end up growing apart. They can both enter into it totally in love with one another, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
Finding two twenty-somethings with a good marriage is like stumbling across a unicorn in the meadow, or a girl that knows how to suck on balls. All three are mythical creatures. Most girls treat a man's testicle like she intends on pulling it right out of the sack. Right then. Right there. No man wants to look down and see his scrotum stretched to it's limits while you look like you are trying to tear off a piece of beef jerky. Those fuckers are hardwired in ladies. Just a heads-up. If you don't know your way around down there, either just leave it alone or ask for written instructions. 'Cause shit can go downhill in a hurry down there. I mean, that's how I make my money, so don't fuck with my finances. Also, a tip for the fellas. Keep an ear out while things are getting sexual with your lady. To know what she really likes, without having to ask her (since she's not going to tell you shit anyway), listen for her to say "Oh My God." Not just say it, but she has to say it like it's a fucking question. Like she doesn't know where she is, and doesn't understand what the hell is even going on anymore. That shit needs a lilt at the end of the sentence. Like, "oh my...OH my....oh, oh, Ohh My GOD??" When she turns it into a question, you know you're in there like swimwear.
Men don't need a lot, ladies. A real horny man doesn't even need a hole. All he needs is a crease. The back of the knee, an arm-pit, or even right under the chin. If you're skinny enough, he will even fuck your shoulder-blades. So stop trying to analyze us, ladies. We are simple creatures. Don't think ten steps ahead, because we haven't made it past what we are going to do to you later. What we say is what we mean. If we tell you that you look beautiful, it doesn't mean we want to fuck your sister. Let that shit go. It only happened once, anyway, and she and I were both drunk. If we break up, you are just going to go after my brother or one of my friends anyway, just to get back at me. Sorry, got lost in the past there for a moment. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
5/26/2011
The Ex-Wife Returns (thankfully only in literature)
The evil villain of our tale has returned, Gentle Reader. Her superpowers consist of only letting you see her children as long as you are in love with her and being able to clean all of your possessions out of a house in four hours or less. We have already touched on the beginning of the relationship, so now let us delve into the demise. For starters, she was the most possessive and jealous creature I have ever ran across. In her mind, trivia night with the guys at Hooters meant I probably gang-banged the entire wait-staff (possibly even the cook.) I once asked her if I could have one night a month to hang out with my friends. Her reply was, "THAT often?" I'm not a werewolf. I shouldn't have to wait for a full moon to hang out with my friends. The rest of this story will be free of side-notes and my bullshit. It happened, as written, without commercial interruption.
After coming home late from a friend's bachelor party, everything went to shit. She was throwing shoes, insults, and any other debris she could lay her hands on. That was it for me, so I called my brother, packed a bag, told her I was leaving, said goodbye to the kids, and I left. I came back a few nights later just to talk. She was crying like her best pig just died, and I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Apparently, my lack of emotion did NOT go unnoticed, because she suddenly whips out the 5-inch hunting knife I stole from my father to cut blunts with. In the midst of me realizing there is now a sharpened blade in my presence, she says, "I'm crying, now YOU'RE gonna cry!" Being a man who had never had a knife wielded in his face before, I did what any sane man would do. I shit myself first, shed a tear second, and ran for the fucking door third. Man, did I have my priorities fucked up on this one. Advice of the day: Door FIRST, gentlemen... Door first.
So after making my way to the door at a "gingerly" pace, apparently I got it open just wide enough to let what little bit of "It's gonna be okay" I had left inside me squeeze through and run up the road screaming. As I watch my courage barely squeak through the door, she shoulder-butts it closed. Oh, fuck me. Now she is waving that damn blade around like a three-time-repeat-champion Mexican knife-fighter, while questioning my intentions of leaving. "Where are you going?," were the exact words, if I remember them correctly (and I'm pretty sure I won't ever forget them.) After assuring her that I had NO intention of ever leaving her, I attempted to pick up the phone to call the police, Jesus, or anyone else that might be able to help. I heard no dial tone; All I heard was, "Put the phone down FUCKER!" And down the phone went. I might be a whore, but I'm not a dumb whore.
Somehow, after enough talking, I managed to escape this "Pit of Despair" alive. Multiple suicide threats later, she finally agreed to move on with her life. I only returned to that house once while she lived there. It was the creepiest day of my life. I went to get my personal things while she was at work. I eased the key in the lock the same way I eased the door open seconds later. Finding no psychopaths in the building, I tip-toed down the hallway to the bedroom, until I came face-to-face with a nightmare. What I found will give me chills until the day I die. What I saw on the bed was a man-shaped pile of things with a sheet thrown over them. It literally looked like a man sleeping under the sheet. Arms. Legs. Head. Body. The "man-shape" was actually made of my personal belongings. I'm not talking just clothes. We are talking watches, journals, awards from high school, etc. They were piled up and shaped so it looked like a man was laying under the sheet. All I could think was, "Please tell me she hasn't been spooning with this fucking thing."
After safely escaping with my belongings, and what was left of my sanity, I was on my way towards a divorce. I paid the rent on the house for three months so she could get her life on track. I was staying at my brother's house while she was apparently experimenting with how bad she could trash a rental house before I lost my deposit. The day I showed up to move back in, I noticed a couple things right off the bat. Number one...this fucking place was empty except for the mess that was left. It looked like nuclear fallout. Number two....She took EVERYTHING. I know what you are thinking, Gentle Reader. If she took some furniture, it was her right as a wife. I ain't talking fucking foot-stools and futons. She took the toilet paper off the rolls, ice-cube trays out of the freezer (yeah, I was kicking it poor-man-style then, but what kind of sick bitch takes the ice-cube trays), and although she did leave the last can of "Who-Hash", she even took the light bulbs out of the fixtures. She took all of the silverware and dishes, except for one spoon, one knife, one fork, and one plate. It inspired me to leave this message on my answering machine; "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'm busy washing my dish."
So no toilet paper, no ice cubes, and no lights, but I still had something, Gentle Reader. What I had was a dead hamster left laying in the middle of the freezer. Yeah, you read it right. Dead Hamster. Middle of freezer. Whiskey....Tango....Foxtrot? I also had a mattress that was left in the master bedroom. And on this mattress, she had written "MILES LOVES 'THE EX-WIFE' 4-EVER" in Sharpie, surrounded by a heart with our wedding date written underneath. Not She Loves Me, but I Love Her....For....Ever. On the underside of the mattress, where I wouldn't find it for six months. She also never got around to changing her last name while we were married. She waited until the divorce was under way to change it, because she "wanted to take part of me with her." So guys, the next time you start to get a little creeped out because your girl read a couple of your text messages, don't bother calling me with some sob story. I've seen worse.
After coming home late from a friend's bachelor party, everything went to shit. She was throwing shoes, insults, and any other debris she could lay her hands on. That was it for me, so I called my brother, packed a bag, told her I was leaving, said goodbye to the kids, and I left. I came back a few nights later just to talk. She was crying like her best pig just died, and I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Apparently, my lack of emotion did NOT go unnoticed, because she suddenly whips out the 5-inch hunting knife I stole from my father to cut blunts with. In the midst of me realizing there is now a sharpened blade in my presence, she says, "I'm crying, now YOU'RE gonna cry!" Being a man who had never had a knife wielded in his face before, I did what any sane man would do. I shit myself first, shed a tear second, and ran for the fucking door third. Man, did I have my priorities fucked up on this one. Advice of the day: Door FIRST, gentlemen... Door first.
So after making my way to the door at a "gingerly" pace, apparently I got it open just wide enough to let what little bit of "It's gonna be okay" I had left inside me squeeze through and run up the road screaming. As I watch my courage barely squeak through the door, she shoulder-butts it closed. Oh, fuck me. Now she is waving that damn blade around like a three-time-repeat-champion Mexican knife-fighter, while questioning my intentions of leaving. "Where are you going?," were the exact words, if I remember them correctly (and I'm pretty sure I won't ever forget them.) After assuring her that I had NO intention of ever leaving her, I attempted to pick up the phone to call the police, Jesus, or anyone else that might be able to help. I heard no dial tone; All I heard was, "Put the phone down FUCKER!" And down the phone went. I might be a whore, but I'm not a dumb whore.
Somehow, after enough talking, I managed to escape this "Pit of Despair" alive. Multiple suicide threats later, she finally agreed to move on with her life. I only returned to that house once while she lived there. It was the creepiest day of my life. I went to get my personal things while she was at work. I eased the key in the lock the same way I eased the door open seconds later. Finding no psychopaths in the building, I tip-toed down the hallway to the bedroom, until I came face-to-face with a nightmare. What I found will give me chills until the day I die. What I saw on the bed was a man-shaped pile of things with a sheet thrown over them. It literally looked like a man sleeping under the sheet. Arms. Legs. Head. Body. The "man-shape" was actually made of my personal belongings. I'm not talking just clothes. We are talking watches, journals, awards from high school, etc. They were piled up and shaped so it looked like a man was laying under the sheet. All I could think was, "Please tell me she hasn't been spooning with this fucking thing."
After safely escaping with my belongings, and what was left of my sanity, I was on my way towards a divorce. I paid the rent on the house for three months so she could get her life on track. I was staying at my brother's house while she was apparently experimenting with how bad she could trash a rental house before I lost my deposit. The day I showed up to move back in, I noticed a couple things right off the bat. Number one...this fucking place was empty except for the mess that was left. It looked like nuclear fallout. Number two....She took EVERYTHING. I know what you are thinking, Gentle Reader. If she took some furniture, it was her right as a wife. I ain't talking fucking foot-stools and futons. She took the toilet paper off the rolls, ice-cube trays out of the freezer (yeah, I was kicking it poor-man-style then, but what kind of sick bitch takes the ice-cube trays), and although she did leave the last can of "Who-Hash", she even took the light bulbs out of the fixtures. She took all of the silverware and dishes, except for one spoon, one knife, one fork, and one plate. It inspired me to leave this message on my answering machine; "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'm busy washing my dish."
So no toilet paper, no ice cubes, and no lights, but I still had something, Gentle Reader. What I had was a dead hamster left laying in the middle of the freezer. Yeah, you read it right. Dead Hamster. Middle of freezer. Whiskey....Tango....Foxtrot? I also had a mattress that was left in the master bedroom. And on this mattress, she had written "MILES LOVES 'THE EX-WIFE' 4-EVER" in Sharpie, surrounded by a heart with our wedding date written underneath. Not She Loves Me, but I Love Her....For....Ever. On the underside of the mattress, where I wouldn't find it for six months. She also never got around to changing her last name while we were married. She waited until the divorce was under way to change it, because she "wanted to take part of me with her." So guys, the next time you start to get a little creeped out because your girl read a couple of your text messages, don't bother calling me with some sob story. I've seen worse.
5/17/2011
If These Balls Could Talk
Welcome back again, Gentle Reader. Today my mind is in a thousand places, so this entry probably will be as well, but I had a few things that I wanted to share with you. First off, I want to thank each and every one of you that continue to read this. It is truly a humbling experience to know how much funnier I am than you and everyone else you know. Also, a sincere thank you to "Sweet Cheeks" who said she would love, Love, LOVE to have the very first "I Was Saved By The Captain" t-shirt. And I never even "saved" her, go figure. She also told me she was "obsessed/psycho/stalker" about reading it. So a big round of applause for Sweet Cheeks for being the scariest and most loyal reader a fellow psychopath could ask for.
So I was watching "8 Mile" over the weekend, and while watching Marshall Mathers and Brittany Murphy have movie sex, I started lusting after Ms. Murphy. I immediately changed the channel. I knew what would happen if I kept watching. Me....making love....to myself. Very bad idea. There are two things you should always remember, Gentle Reader. Big girls give better head and never jerk-off to dead people. I think it has to be disrespectful on some level. As far as the big girl/head thing, it's a fact. Don't worry skinny girls, I don't think it has anything to do with talent. I am pretty sure it has something to do with the thickness and softness of the cheeks. It's either that, or they are just more comfortable with having their mouths full.
While we are on the subject of good advice, I have one more life lesson I learned along the way. I will not, on any occasion, have sex with a girl that is on her period. Some guys will even do oral at this point. I will see you in Hell...... you fucking degenerates. I just have no interest in going to the bathroom afterwards to clean my cock off like I'm cleaning my sword off after battle. Braveheart, I am not. I mean patience is a virtue right? So I will catch you on the flip-side, ladies.
For those who think I went a little too far today, try to remember I write this knowing that my mother is going to read this. Love you, Mom. She is actually a big fan. She loves me for me, and that's all a son could ever ask for. We were actually talking about her dreams of having grandchildren the other day. I said, "I'm sorry, Mom, I'm pretty sure I must be sterile or it would have at least happened by accident at this point." She asked me if I was being safe. I said, "Of course I'm safe, I always pull out and just cum on their face." True story. That shit happened. It's a process to reach this point of candidness with your mother. It takes years. You can't just go from talking about report cards, and then go straight into facials and money-shots. So I figure if you are still reading at this point, I now have free reign to write about anything, without worries of losing you. It won't get any worse than this, I can assure you. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
So I was watching "8 Mile" over the weekend, and while watching Marshall Mathers and Brittany Murphy have movie sex, I started lusting after Ms. Murphy. I immediately changed the channel. I knew what would happen if I kept watching. Me....making love....to myself. Very bad idea. There are two things you should always remember, Gentle Reader. Big girls give better head and never jerk-off to dead people. I think it has to be disrespectful on some level. As far as the big girl/head thing, it's a fact. Don't worry skinny girls, I don't think it has anything to do with talent. I am pretty sure it has something to do with the thickness and softness of the cheeks. It's either that, or they are just more comfortable with having their mouths full.
While we are on the subject of good advice, I have one more life lesson I learned along the way. I will not, on any occasion, have sex with a girl that is on her period. Some guys will even do oral at this point. I will see you in Hell...... you fucking degenerates. I just have no interest in going to the bathroom afterwards to clean my cock off like I'm cleaning my sword off after battle. Braveheart, I am not. I mean patience is a virtue right? So I will catch you on the flip-side, ladies.
For those who think I went a little too far today, try to remember I write this knowing that my mother is going to read this. Love you, Mom. She is actually a big fan. She loves me for me, and that's all a son could ever ask for. We were actually talking about her dreams of having grandchildren the other day. I said, "I'm sorry, Mom, I'm pretty sure I must be sterile or it would have at least happened by accident at this point." She asked me if I was being safe. I said, "Of course I'm safe, I always pull out and just cum on their face." True story. That shit happened. It's a process to reach this point of candidness with your mother. It takes years. You can't just go from talking about report cards, and then go straight into facials and money-shots. So I figure if you are still reading at this point, I now have free reign to write about anything, without worries of losing you. It won't get any worse than this, I can assure you. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
5/11/2011
The Dawning Of The Cape
Well, well, well, Gentle Reader. It's hard to believe that we have been together for a little over a month now. Does this mean we are going steady now? Do I have to pin you behind the sockhop before we get to the "necking?" Because I have a pretty big fear of commitment, and that would scare the shit out of me. Let me start this one with a little advice for the fellas. Guys, there are two acts in your life that you should never perform violently. Those two things are shaving and masturbating. Fucking bad things bro, bad things. Also, on a side note guys, don't date girls from Athens. Too risky. Check an HIV map of Georgia, and Athens looks like where the Queen of the hive lives; Unless you have Magic Johnson money, this is a gamble you don't want to take. For you new readers out there, just want to say that reading a blog is like foreplay with a woman.... it works out best if you start at the bottom and work your way up. For once in our relationship, Gentle Reader, I am going to give you what I promised. This is the tragic story of my brief marriage. Hold on to your nipples.
I was 20 years old when I met The Ex-Wife. Forgive me for not coming up with a more imaginative name, but I couldn't think of anything that would describe the experience better. She was 28 at the time, which would make her almost 30 for those math-challenged readers. Like this red-headed, freckled fuck I went to school with. He was in my freshman English class when he was 19 years old. Let me repeat, he was 19.....in Freshman English. Hey, we all have different skills. We weren't all meant to read and write. So, me and The Ex-Wife were both servers at a restaurant. I was a lost soul chasing after someone else I thought I really loved while she was chasing after me. I finally went to see her one lonely night, slept with her, attempted to drive home, and then....the Clusterfuck. She didn't want me to just fuck her and leave, so as I am walking to my car, I hear her screaming obscenities and throwing things against the wall. What possessed me to ever come back? It's called sex. Men are slaves to it. If it weren't for sex, we would still be in the caves we crawled out of thousands of years ago. Men have sung songs, written plays, built buildings, and even taken over countries for the love of a good woman. It is our sole motivation for going to work everyday. So please don't judge me, Gentle Reader.
So I met this woman, and she looked like Celine Dion and the old WCW wrestler Sting had a lovechild. Like old-school Lex Luger-days Sting. Not "The Crow" Sting. I had attended multiple colleges with minimal success at this point, but I was finally making good grades again. But after meeting her son and playing video games for hours on end with him, I decided someone needed to take care of him, because SHE certainly wasn't doing it. I actually witnessed her daughter take a piss in the corner of the living room and then start lapping it up like a thirsty dog because "her brother told her to do it." The Ex-Wife just shook her head and laughed. Are you fucking shitting me? Your 5-year old just drank her own urine in the living room and you find this amusing? Fine, you keep laughing...I'm going to throw up on myself and then take a 45 minute shower.
Her parenting skills consisted of telling the children, "Just wait until my boyfriend of two months gets here. He will take care of this. He should be here in two or three days." Yeah, that will teach them not to fuck with you. Gentle Reader, next time your dog shits in your floor on a Tuesday, beat the fuck out of it on Friday morning and see if they learn anything from it. She also had a talent for quitting jobs. Give me a dollar an hour raise, Ex-Wife quits her job. Hey, honey-twat, you realize I went from 8.75/hour to 9.75/hour. Let's not start sucking each others' dicks quite yet. We aren't the Jeffersons. This is still a family of four that needs to be supported. She told me she had lived in a car once growing up, and as long as we had a house, she felt rich. Well you know what makes me feel rich? Running water and satellite television. So get your shit together. One time, while briefly working at a paint store, she bought every gallon of customer-rejected paint the store had in the warehouse, because she thought she could make money with it. What...the...fuck? You just spent $170 on a truckload of paint and there aren't two gallons that match in the whole fucking lot. Are you Bob Ross all of a sudden? You planning on painting some "happy trees" with all that goddamn paint?
As far as housework goes, she was no Mexican maid named Consuela, let me tell you. I would come home from work to a plateau of unfolded clothes on the couch. She would tell me, "I did five loads of laundry today." Hold up, swole-up, you didn't do ONE. If nothing has been folded, you haven't finished the first one. So there for a while, I was working thirteen-hour days, and then coming home to laundry piled up neck-high on the couch, dishes that haven't been washed since the Clinton administration, and kids that need a spanking for something they did two days ago. Why put up with this? I loved her son like he was my own. He called me his Dad, and I felt like I really was.
So, this covers the beginning and middle of my relationship with The Ex-Wife. Later on, we will get into the end. This shit is just getting started. I am trying to stir up a little readership, so I am now holding a Follower contest. I have fourteen now, and plan on giving something away to number twenty. I was thinking two free weeks of relationship advice. Or maybe a "I was saved by the Captain" t-shirt. We will work it out. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
I was 20 years old when I met The Ex-Wife. Forgive me for not coming up with a more imaginative name, but I couldn't think of anything that would describe the experience better. She was 28 at the time, which would make her almost 30 for those math-challenged readers. Like this red-headed, freckled fuck I went to school with. He was in my freshman English class when he was 19 years old. Let me repeat, he was 19.....in Freshman English. Hey, we all have different skills. We weren't all meant to read and write. So, me and The Ex-Wife were both servers at a restaurant. I was a lost soul chasing after someone else I thought I really loved while she was chasing after me. I finally went to see her one lonely night, slept with her, attempted to drive home, and then....the Clusterfuck. She didn't want me to just fuck her and leave, so as I am walking to my car, I hear her screaming obscenities and throwing things against the wall. What possessed me to ever come back? It's called sex. Men are slaves to it. If it weren't for sex, we would still be in the caves we crawled out of thousands of years ago. Men have sung songs, written plays, built buildings, and even taken over countries for the love of a good woman. It is our sole motivation for going to work everyday. So please don't judge me, Gentle Reader.
So I met this woman, and she looked like Celine Dion and the old WCW wrestler Sting had a lovechild. Like old-school Lex Luger-days Sting. Not "The Crow" Sting. I had attended multiple colleges with minimal success at this point, but I was finally making good grades again. But after meeting her son and playing video games for hours on end with him, I decided someone needed to take care of him, because SHE certainly wasn't doing it. I actually witnessed her daughter take a piss in the corner of the living room and then start lapping it up like a thirsty dog because "her brother told her to do it." The Ex-Wife just shook her head and laughed. Are you fucking shitting me? Your 5-year old just drank her own urine in the living room and you find this amusing? Fine, you keep laughing...I'm going to throw up on myself and then take a 45 minute shower.
Her parenting skills consisted of telling the children, "Just wait until my boyfriend of two months gets here. He will take care of this. He should be here in two or three days." Yeah, that will teach them not to fuck with you. Gentle Reader, next time your dog shits in your floor on a Tuesday, beat the fuck out of it on Friday morning and see if they learn anything from it. She also had a talent for quitting jobs. Give me a dollar an hour raise, Ex-Wife quits her job. Hey, honey-twat, you realize I went from 8.75/hour to 9.75/hour. Let's not start sucking each others' dicks quite yet. We aren't the Jeffersons. This is still a family of four that needs to be supported. She told me she had lived in a car once growing up, and as long as we had a house, she felt rich. Well you know what makes me feel rich? Running water and satellite television. So get your shit together. One time, while briefly working at a paint store, she bought every gallon of customer-rejected paint the store had in the warehouse, because she thought she could make money with it. What...the...fuck? You just spent $170 on a truckload of paint and there aren't two gallons that match in the whole fucking lot. Are you Bob Ross all of a sudden? You planning on painting some "happy trees" with all that goddamn paint?
As far as housework goes, she was no Mexican maid named Consuela, let me tell you. I would come home from work to a plateau of unfolded clothes on the couch. She would tell me, "I did five loads of laundry today." Hold up, swole-up, you didn't do ONE. If nothing has been folded, you haven't finished the first one. So there for a while, I was working thirteen-hour days, and then coming home to laundry piled up neck-high on the couch, dishes that haven't been washed since the Clinton administration, and kids that need a spanking for something they did two days ago. Why put up with this? I loved her son like he was my own. He called me his Dad, and I felt like I really was.
So, this covers the beginning and middle of my relationship with The Ex-Wife. Later on, we will get into the end. This shit is just getting started. I am trying to stir up a little readership, so I am now holding a Follower contest. I have fourteen now, and plan on giving something away to number twenty. I was thinking two free weeks of relationship advice. Or maybe a "I was saved by the Captain" t-shirt. We will work it out. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
5/06/2011
Assholes and Thumbholes
Well, Gentle Reader, it has been far too long, but a superhero's life is full of adventures that keep him busy. I mean, I have rent to pay for four ex-girlfriends, diapers to buy for three more, and various other errands to run. I actually had an entry written Monday morning and accidentally deleted it. Dumbass. I have a story I feel I must share. I was accused of being a gaycist over the weekend. It's like a racist, only you hate homosexuals instead of the people that wash your car and bag your groceries. I was at a house party at Trixie's house, and someone asked what that was in the vegetable tray. Being a cultured gentleman, I replied, "I believe that is edamame." This young, gay man wearing a long-sleeve shirt with holes cut in the sleeves so his delicate thumbs could breathe fresh air counters with, "I never thought a redneck would know what edamame was." Oh hell nah. It didn't even piss me off at first, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. It was one of those ticking time-bombs where someone says something to you, and you barely give it any thought. Then three hours later you are making pancakes naked or whatever it is you do, and you think "Wait a minute, what the fuck did he just say to me?"....tick...tick...Boom.
It was one of those moments, except I wasn't making pancakes. I was still at the house party. As was "Thumb Hole." I came to the realization how insulting that one comment really was. Here is this guy from an Atlanta suburb who came on down to Nowhere-ville and thought since I was from here, I must be an ignorant redneck. I beg to differ, kind sir. I couldn't be further from it. I don't hunt. I don't fish. I don't drive a truck you need a fucking rope-ladder to climb into. I don't own a pair of overalls or a deer rifle. I don't play the banjo or the spoons. I rarely go barefoot, and I don't have a sister to fuck even if I wanted to. Not to mention the fact that your IQ is probably near the square root of mine. Being in the inebriated condition I was in, I also felt like he insulted my family, my friends, and the town I grew up in. Those who don't know me, let me enlighten you. This is a dangerous combination. Miles Long + Drunk + Insult = Holy Fuckballs. I don't resort to ignorant cuss words and yelling when I want to insult someone. I chip away at you like a fucking sculptor. Say something, I pick it apart. I am like a sniper in the brush, just waiting to take the shot. I can be relentless, and I can be an asshole, but I make it clever and funny, which to me is all that matters. Needless to say, after the time-bomb went off, I had tunnel vision. At this point, I was just waiting for Thumb Hole to open his mouth, so I could turn it around, insult him, and make everyone else laugh in the process. This is always the best way to handle it for maximum hurt feelings. As an example, he almost fell backwards in his chair and caught himself. Then he said, "I just saw my life flash in front of my eyes." I responded with "Were you disappointed?" Eventually with everyone's laughter filling their ears, they will feel all alone in this small world, and victory shall be yours.
After about an hour or two of attempting to crush Thumb Hole's spirit, I noticed he had disappeared. I inquired to his whereabouts and was told he was in the car refusing to come back inside. I actually felt bad, so I went out to the car to talk to him. I found him laying in the back of a hatchback Subaru looking like he had been crying. So I explained to him why I was upset with him. I also apologized for my relentlessness and told him to please come back inside. Meanwhile, back at the party, a couple of his friends were pretty much accusing me of a hate crime. I have gay and lesbian friends. Don't fucking go there. I didn't dislike him because he was gay, I disliked him because he acted like an uppity asshole who thought he was better than me. It can be the same way with all types of minorities. If someone ever crosses them, it is only because of their race, religion, sexual orientation, etc. That way they can act however they want, and when someone insults them back, they just call you a gaycist, racist, or a bigot. They don't have to take responsibility for their own actions. My step-father even once said "You know what you would be good at, impersonating a gay guy." I wasn't even sure how to take it. I thought it's not my fault that I'm smart, sassy, and an excellent dresser. I don't mean to stereotype; I know all gay guys aren't smart. I thought this was a good story to share, so share I did. I promise to not take as much time updating again. I plan on writing what should be the easiest one yet. It will be starring "The Ex-Wife." Need I say more? Until next time, Gentle Reader.
It was one of those moments, except I wasn't making pancakes. I was still at the house party. As was "Thumb Hole." I came to the realization how insulting that one comment really was. Here is this guy from an Atlanta suburb who came on down to Nowhere-ville and thought since I was from here, I must be an ignorant redneck. I beg to differ, kind sir. I couldn't be further from it. I don't hunt. I don't fish. I don't drive a truck you need a fucking rope-ladder to climb into. I don't own a pair of overalls or a deer rifle. I don't play the banjo or the spoons. I rarely go barefoot, and I don't have a sister to fuck even if I wanted to. Not to mention the fact that your IQ is probably near the square root of mine. Being in the inebriated condition I was in, I also felt like he insulted my family, my friends, and the town I grew up in. Those who don't know me, let me enlighten you. This is a dangerous combination. Miles Long + Drunk + Insult = Holy Fuckballs. I don't resort to ignorant cuss words and yelling when I want to insult someone. I chip away at you like a fucking sculptor. Say something, I pick it apart. I am like a sniper in the brush, just waiting to take the shot. I can be relentless, and I can be an asshole, but I make it clever and funny, which to me is all that matters. Needless to say, after the time-bomb went off, I had tunnel vision. At this point, I was just waiting for Thumb Hole to open his mouth, so I could turn it around, insult him, and make everyone else laugh in the process. This is always the best way to handle it for maximum hurt feelings. As an example, he almost fell backwards in his chair and caught himself. Then he said, "I just saw my life flash in front of my eyes." I responded with "Were you disappointed?" Eventually with everyone's laughter filling their ears, they will feel all alone in this small world, and victory shall be yours.
After about an hour or two of attempting to crush Thumb Hole's spirit, I noticed he had disappeared. I inquired to his whereabouts and was told he was in the car refusing to come back inside. I actually felt bad, so I went out to the car to talk to him. I found him laying in the back of a hatchback Subaru looking like he had been crying. So I explained to him why I was upset with him. I also apologized for my relentlessness and told him to please come back inside. Meanwhile, back at the party, a couple of his friends were pretty much accusing me of a hate crime. I have gay and lesbian friends. Don't fucking go there. I didn't dislike him because he was gay, I disliked him because he acted like an uppity asshole who thought he was better than me. It can be the same way with all types of minorities. If someone ever crosses them, it is only because of their race, religion, sexual orientation, etc. That way they can act however they want, and when someone insults them back, they just call you a gaycist, racist, or a bigot. They don't have to take responsibility for their own actions. My step-father even once said "You know what you would be good at, impersonating a gay guy." I wasn't even sure how to take it. I thought it's not my fault that I'm smart, sassy, and an excellent dresser. I don't mean to stereotype; I know all gay guys aren't smart. I thought this was a good story to share, so share I did. I promise to not take as much time updating again. I plan on writing what should be the easiest one yet. It will be starring "The Ex-Wife." Need I say more? Until next time, Gentle Reader.
4/24/2011
The Succubus
Welcome back, Gentle Reader. Last time we spoke, I brought up the "DON'T FALL IN LOVE" rule. I also mentioned that this was my Achilles' heel. I can assure you, it's not what you think. It's not that making love with a woman makes me fall in love. The problem is men sometimes fall in love with making love to a woman. Not with the woman herself. Guys, beware of this phenomenon. Great sex clouds the mind and impairs judgement. So what if she is pregnant with twins? This "lady" knows what she's doing. This is not a reasonable thought. I know, I've been there. This is a symptom of sleeping with too many girls that just lay there. Or is it lie there? My friend, "Hancock Barbie," will let me know. She is a grammar-nazi/English teacher. I digress. I was with a married woman once who would just lay there in utter silence staring at me. Then at some point, she would say "........I just came......" like she was trying to find out if Ferris Bueller made it to class that day or asking about the intricacies of Voodoo Economics. She was gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but this kind of girl makes MEN want to fake an orgasm. I actually did.......twice.
The opposite of this is a succubus. Wikipedia says this about a succubus. "In folklore traced back to medieval legend, a succubus (plural succubi) is a female demon appearing in dreams who takes the form of a human woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual intercourse. The male counterpart is the incubus. Religious traditions hold that repeated intercourse with a succubus may result in the deterioration of health or even death." Ringing any bells yet, gentlemen? Yeah, you read that right, she will literally fuck the soul out of you. For example, I knew this girl that showed up at my house one day with the smoothest vagina on this side of puberty. I wasn't sure if her snatch was an albino, or if it was just on chemo. I mean there wasn't even a Gillette Fusion ProGlide challenge then; these were the "Mach 3" days. I think she must have waxed it in my driveway. A man is defenseless at this point. It was things like this that landed me in the arms of "The Succubus."
Apparently, "The Succubus" was honing her cock-sucking skills while the rest of us were studying for spelling tests, because she was a former stripper, pregnant with twins, who lived in an empty house, and was lacking of all possessions....and these facts had no effect on me whatsoever. I mean, at 26 years old, at least most of us have acquired some shitty VHS tapes and a closet full of out-of-style clothes. Not "The Succubus." She was twice divorced and had nothing but a belly full of babies and a healthy sexual appetite. I had lusted after her for a decade. My cousin and I went swimming at her house one day while we were in high school, and she came walking downstairs to meet us in a see-through shirt and no bra. It was like the porno version of Rachel Leigh Cook in "She's All That."
I told "The Succubus" she didn't have to work, she could just stay at home with her two new little babies. I mean, how much money can a girl even make "working the pole" with a twin-boys-C-Section scar? Not enough for day-care, I'd wager. I bought the car-seats, double-baby-stroller, Diaper Genie, crib, changing table, diapers, and a breast pump that couldn't keep up with the appetites of two infants. Even still, toward the end of our relationship, by which I mean I kicked her out three days later, she told me, "You don't do enough for me." Really? So first, I'm a piece of shit that doesn't care because I wouldn't sign the birth certificates like I was the father, and now I don't do enough because I won't give you $600/month just for whatever. After clothing and feeding you and the two boys, I DON'T have $600 left for fuck's sake. Can I at least get a $200 a month cock-credit that I can work off at my leisure? Yeah, didn't think so. "The Succubus" literally told me, "I knew you didn't care about me and the boys when you wouldn't sign their birth certificates." As Maury Povich would say, "You are NOT the father."
This is the first experience of Captain Save-A-Ho that I have shared with you. I assure you that there are more to come. Not to worry, Gentle Reader, I have put the cape up. It is gathering dust in the attic. Where we hope it will stay. I know that if Adam couldn't make it out of the Garden of Eden without a divorce, then maybe I shouldn't feel so bad for my failures here on Earth (See Video.) Happy Easter, Gentle Reader!
The opposite of this is a succubus. Wikipedia says this about a succubus. "In folklore traced back to medieval legend, a succubus (plural succubi) is a female demon appearing in dreams who takes the form of a human woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual intercourse. The male counterpart is the incubus. Religious traditions hold that repeated intercourse with a succubus may result in the deterioration of health or even death." Ringing any bells yet, gentlemen? Yeah, you read that right, she will literally fuck the soul out of you. For example, I knew this girl that showed up at my house one day with the smoothest vagina on this side of puberty. I wasn't sure if her snatch was an albino, or if it was just on chemo. I mean there wasn't even a Gillette Fusion ProGlide challenge then; these were the "Mach 3" days. I think she must have waxed it in my driveway. A man is defenseless at this point. It was things like this that landed me in the arms of "The Succubus."
Apparently, "The Succubus" was honing her cock-sucking skills while the rest of us were studying for spelling tests, because she was a former stripper, pregnant with twins, who lived in an empty house, and was lacking of all possessions....and these facts had no effect on me whatsoever. I mean, at 26 years old, at least most of us have acquired some shitty VHS tapes and a closet full of out-of-style clothes. Not "The Succubus." She was twice divorced and had nothing but a belly full of babies and a healthy sexual appetite. I had lusted after her for a decade. My cousin and I went swimming at her house one day while we were in high school, and she came walking downstairs to meet us in a see-through shirt and no bra. It was like the porno version of Rachel Leigh Cook in "She's All That."
I told "The Succubus" she didn't have to work, she could just stay at home with her two new little babies. I mean, how much money can a girl even make "working the pole" with a twin-boys-C-Section scar? Not enough for day-care, I'd wager. I bought the car-seats, double-baby-stroller, Diaper Genie, crib, changing table, diapers, and a breast pump that couldn't keep up with the appetites of two infants. Even still, toward the end of our relationship, by which I mean I kicked her out three days later, she told me, "You don't do enough for me." Really? So first, I'm a piece of shit that doesn't care because I wouldn't sign the birth certificates like I was the father, and now I don't do enough because I won't give you $600/month just for whatever. After clothing and feeding you and the two boys, I DON'T have $600 left for fuck's sake. Can I at least get a $200 a month cock-credit that I can work off at my leisure? Yeah, didn't think so. "The Succubus" literally told me, "I knew you didn't care about me and the boys when you wouldn't sign their birth certificates." As Maury Povich would say, "You are NOT the father."
This is the first experience of Captain Save-A-Ho that I have shared with you. I assure you that there are more to come. Not to worry, Gentle Reader, I have put the cape up. It is gathering dust in the attic. Where we hope it will stay. I know that if Adam couldn't make it out of the Garden of Eden without a divorce, then maybe I shouldn't feel so bad for my failures here on Earth (See Video.) Happy Easter, Gentle Reader!
4/20/2011
Friends and Acquaintances
Gentle Reader, I must tell you, you are killing me. I have heard from people that read this blog to their co-workers, their neighbors, and their friends. Don't get me wrong, that makes me all weepy inside, but you tell people how funny I am...."Oh, you gotta read this, this guy is hilarious." How do you think that makes me feel? That puts a lot of goddamn pressure on me. Because now if you read it to them, and I'm not funny...You're fucked. I get messages asking me, "When is the next blog coming out," "I am so excited to read what you write next." Well I can assure you Gentle Reader..........that this moment..........that we are sharing..........right now..........is as good as it's going to get. We should just quit while we're ahead. So it's been great, I'm glad we had fun today. But seriously, life is always better in anticipation. In the moments leading up to a big event, you always think how perfect it is going to be and how much fun you're going to have. How do you feel in the car on the way to the beach? And how long is the ride home FROM the beach? I rest my case.
So we find our hero doing push-ups, sit-ups, and swimming laps around the apartment complex pool. He is 20 years old and in the best shape of his life. This came at a time in my life when I thought that how you look really matters. It doesn't. That is rarely the case, Gentle Reader. Don't get me wrong, it certainly helps, but if you have the swagger of a big-dicked-prettyboy that any woman would be crazy to turn down, that's pretty much all you need. The tricky part is to not go too far with it and come off as an arrogant prick. This brings me to the first of many key components of man-whoring. Confidence. Let me break it down for you. Say you are a "5" on a scale of 1 to 10. Having the right amount of confidence adds 2 points to the scale. This means a "5" is now free to hit on girls that are a "7" or less. Also, if you can make the girl laugh until she either shoots random beverages out of her nose or until she cries, add another point. Just remember to stay within your zone. A "5" can never date a "10" unless she is missing an arm (in which case she would now be considered a 6) or unless he is rich. Honestly, I would never date a girl with one arm. What if we fell in love and then she got in an accident and was wheelchair-bound for life? She would only be able to push herself in circles. And how could you not laugh while watching THAT?
The next key is the art of avoiding "The Friend Zone." This is the place where many a sweet boy's love has died a slow and painful death. This is where dreams go to die. Very few have ever gotten out alive. To avoid this "Pit of Despair," one must act quickly. I normally avoid this by sending them pictures of my junk the first time I text them. Maybe that's not your style? I get it. Just find your own path. Guys, if a girl has already been to your house, sat on the couch for hours, and left without you even holding her hand.....you're so fucking fucked and you don't even know it yet. One reason it is so important to avoid this, is it seriously cuts into the available options on any given night. Say you get drunk at a party, you might end up getting a "rusty trombone" from an acquaintance but NEVER a friend. Friends are who you call when you need someone to talk to. A girl doesn't want to suck your dick like it's going to put food on the table if you called her crying the night before because "Extreme Makeover was especially touching tonight." She might want to marry a sensitive guy, but that's not what we're going for here, so I'll leave that for someone else to write about.
The last key I will touch on today is the most important. It is very fucking simple, but it's probably the most difficult. DON'T FALL IN LOVE. Got it? I certainly don't. I broke this rule more times than I care to remember. Hell, this is how Captain Save-A-Ho even came into existence. Girls that are DTF on a random Wednesday don't make good relationship partners. Don't worry, we will delve into every single, painful one of these mistakes that I ever made. Guys, just try to follow these rules and maybe you can put a couple notches in the "man-belt." I'm not even sure what the fuck that means, but let's just go with it. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
So we find our hero doing push-ups, sit-ups, and swimming laps around the apartment complex pool. He is 20 years old and in the best shape of his life. This came at a time in my life when I thought that how you look really matters. It doesn't. That is rarely the case, Gentle Reader. Don't get me wrong, it certainly helps, but if you have the swagger of a big-dicked-prettyboy that any woman would be crazy to turn down, that's pretty much all you need. The tricky part is to not go too far with it and come off as an arrogant prick. This brings me to the first of many key components of man-whoring. Confidence. Let me break it down for you. Say you are a "5" on a scale of 1 to 10. Having the right amount of confidence adds 2 points to the scale. This means a "5" is now free to hit on girls that are a "7" or less. Also, if you can make the girl laugh until she either shoots random beverages out of her nose or until she cries, add another point. Just remember to stay within your zone. A "5" can never date a "10" unless she is missing an arm (in which case she would now be considered a 6) or unless he is rich. Honestly, I would never date a girl with one arm. What if we fell in love and then she got in an accident and was wheelchair-bound for life? She would only be able to push herself in circles. And how could you not laugh while watching THAT?
The next key is the art of avoiding "The Friend Zone." This is the place where many a sweet boy's love has died a slow and painful death. This is where dreams go to die. Very few have ever gotten out alive. To avoid this "Pit of Despair," one must act quickly. I normally avoid this by sending them pictures of my junk the first time I text them. Maybe that's not your style? I get it. Just find your own path. Guys, if a girl has already been to your house, sat on the couch for hours, and left without you even holding her hand.....you're so fucking fucked and you don't even know it yet. One reason it is so important to avoid this, is it seriously cuts into the available options on any given night. Say you get drunk at a party, you might end up getting a "rusty trombone" from an acquaintance but NEVER a friend. Friends are who you call when you need someone to talk to. A girl doesn't want to suck your dick like it's going to put food on the table if you called her crying the night before because "Extreme Makeover was especially touching tonight." She might want to marry a sensitive guy, but that's not what we're going for here, so I'll leave that for someone else to write about.
The last key I will touch on today is the most important. It is very fucking simple, but it's probably the most difficult. DON'T FALL IN LOVE. Got it? I certainly don't. I broke this rule more times than I care to remember. Hell, this is how Captain Save-A-Ho even came into existence. Girls that are DTF on a random Wednesday don't make good relationship partners. Don't worry, we will delve into every single, painful one of these mistakes that I ever made. Guys, just try to follow these rules and maybe you can put a couple notches in the "man-belt." I'm not even sure what the fuck that means, but let's just go with it. Until next time, Gentle Reader.
4/14/2011
Assclowns, Ladies, and Bares...Oh my!
Well Gentle Reader, if you ever wanted to know where all the nice guys went, let me tell you a story about why they are an endangered species. These are the three steps one must take to make yourself look and feel like an assclown. Step 1: Start a blog, I'm pretty sure that 12-13 years of self-inflicted whore abuse isn't a requirement. Step 2: Post an anonymous letter leaving yourself feeling foolish and vulnerable. Step 3: Wait 20 minutes. That's all there is to it apparently, because twenty minutes after posting "Headbangers Ball," I received a message from Headbanger telling me that she didn't think we should talk anymore, and we should just be friends. Let me add that she knew I would be posting it and wanted me to post it. The best part of it was her asking me, "You aren't going to write about me like those other heartless bitches, are you?" I asked myself, "What would Taylor Swift do?" But we have no more time for all this bullshit, heartfelt dillydallying. Let us catch up with our hero.
After the betrayal of Doe-Eyes, I was determined to never let that happen again. I seriously only had one brief relationship between her and my ex-wife. I was 17 then....I got married at 23. That brief relationship will need it's own entry. That shit turned into an episode of Jersey Shore. So I thought I would just be able to start having casual sex. It doesn't work that way. My first problem ended up being I didn't quite have the game. I spent most of my life worrying about grades and report cards. For some reason, girls that are DTF don't seem to care about past-participles and remembering to carry the 1. My second problem was being incapable of not falling in love at the first sight of a naked female body. I mean, sex is a very intimate act. It is as close as you can ever get to a person. So I fell in love with every girl I slept with at first. Then I told myself "That is just pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts." The first Gentle Reader to tell me the movie that line came from wins a barely used "Uncle Buck" DVD. You pay all shipping costs.
So I started practicing....with myself....a lot. Not really; I was already in love with myself by this point. I do love me some me. I think my narcissism compensates for my lack of self-respect. I can assure you, I did have my share of growing pains though. I slept with a girl that hit a car with MY car in a Waffle House parking lot, and then proceeded to speed off. There was a girl that called my apartment and left a number to call her at. It was the number to MY apartment. She was cute, but not so bright. There was even an insanely jealous one that would ask "Who is that?" everytime I spoke to a girl, hugged a friend that was a girl, or even when just some random girl walked within 10 feet of me. I now know, the way you handle this situation is the first time a girl asks "Who's that?", I say "Oh, who was that? THAT is the greatest cocksucker on the planet. That's who THAT is. Actually, maybe you two should go swap stories. I mean YOU never blew me and made both my legs cramp up at once, did you? Well, she did. And there is no quit in that girl. Nuh huh. I was trying to walk the cramps out and she was just walking backwards on her knees in front of me. It was A-mazing." I can tell you guys, this works everytime. She will never ask "Who is THAT?" again.... Because she will leave you.
So next time Gentle Reader, I promise to stay on the path, focus on the prize, and all that other shit. We will get into the time where I finally gained some self-confidence and started to get laid with regularity. On a final note, please respect the privacy of those mentioned here. If I choose to not use their real name, it is to show them a little respect (whether they deserve it or not). The next person that asks me who I am writing about....I can promise you, when I get around to you....I'll use YOUR real name. And to the ones that think every post is about them, get the fuck over yourself. It's not all about you. This is all about ME, obviously. Start your own blog, fame-whores.
After the betrayal of Doe-Eyes, I was determined to never let that happen again. I seriously only had one brief relationship between her and my ex-wife. I was 17 then....I got married at 23. That brief relationship will need it's own entry. That shit turned into an episode of Jersey Shore. So I thought I would just be able to start having casual sex. It doesn't work that way. My first problem ended up being I didn't quite have the game. I spent most of my life worrying about grades and report cards. For some reason, girls that are DTF don't seem to care about past-participles and remembering to carry the 1. My second problem was being incapable of not falling in love at the first sight of a naked female body. I mean, sex is a very intimate act. It is as close as you can ever get to a person. So I fell in love with every girl I slept with at first. Then I told myself "That is just pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts." The first Gentle Reader to tell me the movie that line came from wins a barely used "Uncle Buck" DVD. You pay all shipping costs.
So I started practicing....with myself....a lot. Not really; I was already in love with myself by this point. I do love me some me. I think my narcissism compensates for my lack of self-respect. I can assure you, I did have my share of growing pains though. I slept with a girl that hit a car with MY car in a Waffle House parking lot, and then proceeded to speed off. There was a girl that called my apartment and left a number to call her at. It was the number to MY apartment. She was cute, but not so bright. There was even an insanely jealous one that would ask "Who is that?" everytime I spoke to a girl, hugged a friend that was a girl, or even when just some random girl walked within 10 feet of me. I now know, the way you handle this situation is the first time a girl asks "Who's that?", I say "Oh, who was that? THAT is the greatest cocksucker on the planet. That's who THAT is. Actually, maybe you two should go swap stories. I mean YOU never blew me and made both my legs cramp up at once, did you? Well, she did. And there is no quit in that girl. Nuh huh. I was trying to walk the cramps out and she was just walking backwards on her knees in front of me. It was A-mazing." I can tell you guys, this works everytime. She will never ask "Who is THAT?" again.... Because she will leave you.
So next time Gentle Reader, I promise to stay on the path, focus on the prize, and all that other shit. We will get into the time where I finally gained some self-confidence and started to get laid with regularity. On a final note, please respect the privacy of those mentioned here. If I choose to not use their real name, it is to show them a little respect (whether they deserve it or not). The next person that asks me who I am writing about....I can promise you, when I get around to you....I'll use YOUR real name. And to the ones that think every post is about them, get the fuck over yourself. It's not all about you. This is all about ME, obviously. Start your own blog, fame-whores.
4/11/2011
Headbangers Ball
Welcome back, Gentle Reader. Before we go any further, I can feel some of you slipping away from me. I don't want to lose you. I don't want you to think I am just some heartless, sexist son of a bitch that hates women. I just call 'em like I see 'em. So if I catch you emptying my coin jar, and I just happen to say "What the fuck are you doing?!?" And your answer is "Nothing, I'm JUST taking the quarters. We need to start saving something for my three-week old twins that you took in along with my broke ass." Don't get mad at me when I question you on the usefulness of nickels and dimes when it comes to paying college tuition. I am pretty sure a community college will accept any and all rolled coin as acceptable payment. I mean really, you are either robbing me or you have a fucking pinball addiction...either way, I think you need some help.
I am actually a lover of all women. I love how different each and every one of them are. They all have their little things that make them unique. They all have their own style, their own way of talking, their own way of making love. It's the differences that make them who they are. But I must say, some can be a little out there. Just a piece of advice ladies...if you are "making love" to a man, and he is inside you....do NOT start crying and say "I have....been waiting....on this moment....for so long" while a tear rolls down your cheek. I mean this is our first time, you fucking nutter. It's just ME, this girl is acting like she is fucking Puff-Daddy. Or P-Diddy. Or Puff-dawg, or whatever in the hell that ass-clown is going by these days.
So to show my softer side, Gentle Reader, I submit to you a love letter written by yours truly. Just so you know there is still a soul somewhere inside me. Don't judge me. I am still a hopeless romantic deep down, in that small part of my heart that I have left. I understand we didn't move our story along that much today, but if you have a problem with that, then you come fucking write this thing. It ain't as easy as I make it look.
Dear Headbanger,
A long time ago, I sent you a check-yes-or-no note that I thought wouldn't mean anything to either of us in the long run. I couldn't have been more wrong. Just that little reminder that somebody was thinking of you touched you and reminded you that there was somebody out there that you meant something to. How could I have known that almost 20 years from then, you would come along and show me the same thing? That in a dark time, there is someone that understands you, someone that can be there for you.
If I had known for even a second that twenty years from then, we would be able to talk for hours on end, make each other laugh, make each other feel something inside, I still wouldn't change a thing... I know, why wouldn't I change it? Maybe things could have been different. Maybe we would be together now. But if we would have tried to make it work years ago and you hadn't moved away, things would have went to shit, we would've hated each other and we wouldn't have what we have now.
And what we have now is worth every tired night I spend at work, every bad relationship I ever went through, just to have those few hours together talking, laughing, and wondering what the hell we are doing. When I keep telling myself that I should be in bed, and the next minute tell myself that I can't ignore what I am feeling. So I keep saying "This is a fucking bad idea, don't sign on, don't talk to her, don't respond, don't wait up for her to sign on." But I "man up" and wait for you, and in the end, those precious minutes we get together are worth every sleepy minute I spend at work that night.
Love,
Miles Long
I am actually a lover of all women. I love how different each and every one of them are. They all have their little things that make them unique. They all have their own style, their own way of talking, their own way of making love. It's the differences that make them who they are. But I must say, some can be a little out there. Just a piece of advice ladies...if you are "making love" to a man, and he is inside you....do NOT start crying and say "I have....been waiting....on this moment....for so long" while a tear rolls down your cheek. I mean this is our first time, you fucking nutter. It's just ME, this girl is acting like she is fucking Puff-Daddy. Or P-Diddy. Or Puff-dawg, or whatever in the hell that ass-clown is going by these days.
So to show my softer side, Gentle Reader, I submit to you a love letter written by yours truly. Just so you know there is still a soul somewhere inside me. Don't judge me. I am still a hopeless romantic deep down, in that small part of my heart that I have left. I understand we didn't move our story along that much today, but if you have a problem with that, then you come fucking write this thing. It ain't as easy as I make it look.
Dear Headbanger,
A long time ago, I sent you a check-yes-or-no note that I thought wouldn't mean anything to either of us in the long run. I couldn't have been more wrong. Just that little reminder that somebody was thinking of you touched you and reminded you that there was somebody out there that you meant something to. How could I have known that almost 20 years from then, you would come along and show me the same thing? That in a dark time, there is someone that understands you, someone that can be there for you.
If I had known for even a second that twenty years from then, we would be able to talk for hours on end, make each other laugh, make each other feel something inside, I still wouldn't change a thing... I know, why wouldn't I change it? Maybe things could have been different. Maybe we would be together now. But if we would have tried to make it work years ago and you hadn't moved away, things would have went to shit, we would've hated each other and we wouldn't have what we have now.
And what we have now is worth every tired night I spend at work, every bad relationship I ever went through, just to have those few hours together talking, laughing, and wondering what the hell we are doing. When I keep telling myself that I should be in bed, and the next minute tell myself that I can't ignore what I am feeling. So I keep saying "This is a fucking bad idea, don't sign on, don't talk to her, don't respond, don't wait up for her to sign on." But I "man up" and wait for you, and in the end, those precious minutes we get together are worth every sleepy minute I spend at work that night.
Love,
Miles Long
4/08/2011
The Knife in the Back
Welcome back, Gentle Reader. I received a message from my best friend regarding the excessive profanity in my previous post. She said it was one thing to hear me say it, but quite another experience to have to read it. No worries, I told her to go fuck herself. So back to our hero. A typical high school student with a sense of purpose when all he really had was false hope and fairy tales. Thinking everything is going to work out perfectly. Graduation. College. Meet the wife. Start a family. How deluded some of us were. If our parents would have told us the mythical "when you're grown up" was like this, we would have beat the shit out of them for having us. I mean, they only had us to try to save their failing marriages anyway.
So let us picture this delusional, starry-eyed fuck, with a head full of hair, parted down the middle, flopped over on both sides, looking like he is wearing someone's ass as a hat. I was such a hopeless romantic at the time. Just waiting on "The One" to show up and blow my mind, knowing I would find "true love" but the thing I wanted more than anything else.....was sex. In my defense, at that age, I could achieve erection by facing a stiff breeze, and after a while you run out of things you can pour on it, hit it with, or even burn it with. I promise you Gentle Reader, I haven't struck another match, for ANY reason, to this day.
So now that we are on the same page, let me introduce you to Doe-Eyes. She had, even to this day, the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, the body of an Olympic gymnast, and the voice of Bobcat Goldthwait (for those wondering, he was Zed in the Police Academy movies, and voiced the rabbit on Unhappily Ever After or just check the link). Of course I tell myself at the time, you can ignore the voice, because she won't be talking much with a cock in her mouth, now will she? I mean, MAYBE she can mumble, or at best, hum the melody to "Thriller." Anyway, I met Doe-Eyes when I was 13 at a high school basketball game. She sat with a friend of mine, they sat behind me, and I was infatuated from that day forward. It was those goddamn soul-sucking eyes. I heard a rumor, not long after that, that she had lost her virginity behind the library to three guys. And being the man I am, I never thought "What a whore!". My only thought was "If three cocks are good enough for the first time, then one shouldn't be a problem."
Fast-forward a few years, and Doe-Eyes and I are finally dating. I'm 17 and she is still a whore. I was so in love, or so I thought. I thought this is what it must be like. This is what everyone has been talking about. This shit is fantastic. Then came the knife. Right in the back. This is advice for the fellas out there who may be a little younger and might actually buy this line because they are getting some from a pretty girl. When a girl says "I don't think we should have sex anymore...I want to change my ways...I want to be a better person," It doesn't mean they don't wanna fuck, it just means they don't want to fuck YOU anymore. Someone once said, a whore is a girl that is sleeping with everyone. A bitch is a girl that is sleeping with everyone EXCEPT you. I'm pretty sure she was both at some point, but being the innocent, naive little fucker I was, I said "Of course, baby, I don't want you to do anything you aren't comfortable with." I am sure you guessed it by this point, Gentle Reader. She was cheating on me. She is the only girl I know for a fact that has ever cheated on me. I was crushed. Fucking crushed. I thought we loved each other, I thought high school sweethearts got married and had a shitload of unruly kids that play under other people's tables at Applebee's. That hurt went to my soul and said "We will never let this shit happen again! Got it?"
To wrap it up (which I thankfully did with her), I found out what she was doing, we broke up. She apologized, we got back together and soon after I got the same line from her again. I broke up with her and I swore I would never let this happen again, and I even heard she was already sleeping with someone else by this point. So in the next chapter we will look into the recovery and response of our hero. I warn you, this is where the ride gets a little bumpy.
So let us picture this delusional, starry-eyed fuck, with a head full of hair, parted down the middle, flopped over on both sides, looking like he is wearing someone's ass as a hat. I was such a hopeless romantic at the time. Just waiting on "The One" to show up and blow my mind, knowing I would find "true love" but the thing I wanted more than anything else.....was sex. In my defense, at that age, I could achieve erection by facing a stiff breeze, and after a while you run out of things you can pour on it, hit it with, or even burn it with. I promise you Gentle Reader, I haven't struck another match, for ANY reason, to this day.
So now that we are on the same page, let me introduce you to Doe-Eyes. She had, even to this day, the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, the body of an Olympic gymnast, and the voice of Bobcat Goldthwait (for those wondering, he was Zed in the Police Academy movies, and voiced the rabbit on Unhappily Ever After or just check the link). Of course I tell myself at the time, you can ignore the voice, because she won't be talking much with a cock in her mouth, now will she? I mean, MAYBE she can mumble, or at best, hum the melody to "Thriller." Anyway, I met Doe-Eyes when I was 13 at a high school basketball game. She sat with a friend of mine, they sat behind me, and I was infatuated from that day forward. It was those goddamn soul-sucking eyes. I heard a rumor, not long after that, that she had lost her virginity behind the library to three guys. And being the man I am, I never thought "What a whore!". My only thought was "If three cocks are good enough for the first time, then one shouldn't be a problem."
Fast-forward a few years, and Doe-Eyes and I are finally dating. I'm 17 and she is still a whore. I was so in love, or so I thought. I thought this is what it must be like. This is what everyone has been talking about. This shit is fantastic. Then came the knife. Right in the back. This is advice for the fellas out there who may be a little younger and might actually buy this line because they are getting some from a pretty girl. When a girl says "I don't think we should have sex anymore...I want to change my ways...I want to be a better person," It doesn't mean they don't wanna fuck, it just means they don't want to fuck YOU anymore. Someone once said, a whore is a girl that is sleeping with everyone. A bitch is a girl that is sleeping with everyone EXCEPT you. I'm pretty sure she was both at some point, but being the innocent, naive little fucker I was, I said "Of course, baby, I don't want you to do anything you aren't comfortable with." I am sure you guessed it by this point, Gentle Reader. She was cheating on me. She is the only girl I know for a fact that has ever cheated on me. I was crushed. Fucking crushed. I thought we loved each other, I thought high school sweethearts got married and had a shitload of unruly kids that play under other people's tables at Applebee's. That hurt went to my soul and said "We will never let this shit happen again! Got it?"
To wrap it up (which I thankfully did with her), I found out what she was doing, we broke up. She apologized, we got back together and soon after I got the same line from her again. I broke up with her and I swore I would never let this happen again, and I even heard she was already sleeping with someone else by this point. So in the next chapter we will look into the recovery and response of our hero. I warn you, this is where the ride gets a little bumpy.
4/05/2011
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