The Over-Educated Nympho

fuck. sdfusdlfjskljsdfckckck. why’d I getmyself runk on cheap wine that BF woudlnt’ drink? ?? I’m so lame. and have to PACK!!!! lbldododoyy hell. fuck.fa vorite workd!! FUCK FUCK FUCK. hee heee I can spell thaatttt! shit. where. ist ljist of list of things to pack? donshti not one on computer, that wone funny and kil shit on it not serious list., real list has camera cable adn visa and tersponsible things on it. shit. list?? list? where are youuuuuuuuuuuuuu? I lost me tlist???doh!!! mmm. shleepy. dog? doggy? can you paack for meee? plasehee?I let you pack ccc thes seScccooob ysnakcs, yum yum wwoof oof. shit. fuck. fuckcjcuffkckkkk. oof. tumlbleed over.

I bought a lottery ticket today.

I’ve bought maybe eight tickets in my entire life, all of which were within two months of turning eighteen, just because I could.

I had nine dollars in my purse, why did I decide to devote three of them to my one in 23,455,240 chance of winning the $27 million lottery? Like, what the fuck?

But sitting in the car in the parking lot, neatly tucking away the Texas Lottery ticket inside my purse, I felt a small rush of hope. What if I actually won? What would I do with all that money, which would still be huge even if after Uncle Fucking Sam took half of it away?

I’ve never been the lottery-ticket buying, palm-reading, horoscope-believing, don’t-step-on-a-crack-or-you’ll-break-your-mother’s-back sort of girl. If I see a huge fake spider, I don’t scream and jump. I pick it up and dispose of it immediately (ie tuck it away in my purse to save for an otherwise boring day) and smack the shit out of the person who tried to trick me. I’m not into that sort of shit. I don’t get my hopes up over stuff easily. Or, really, ever.

Maybe I was still high on the Happy Vibes from seeing Dr Xanax earlier this afternoon. The man made me laugh, made me cry, made me mad, and made me coffee, all in one short $175 forty-five minute session. Can you believe this shit, I’m only twenty-five years old and already I’m in therapy crying over what my mother did to me when I was a child. Christ. Boo hoo, it’s not like she was a bad mother or anything. Dr Xanax himself pointed out I make her sound like the most awful woman in existence and he bets she’s actually a perfectly lovely person. Well, yeah, but so what? I still have issues.

The lottery ticket. It was worth the precious three dollars on them to feel that moment of hope, of What if it happens? It was a really really nice feeling. If I won the lottery, my parents wouldn’t have to work any more. I could pay for my brother’s college tuition. I could buy Mom that new car she’s been needing for years. I could buy Dad that Corvette he’s wanted and deserved and drooled over for as long as I can remember.

I could pay my parents the roughly $250,000 they spent on my private education in 12 years of prep school and then university. And the wouldn’t have to pay for my new therapy sessions either. I could happily see Dr Xanax as often as I wanted, without worrying about the price tag of my smile when I drive the twenty minutes home, road-rage-free, an apocalyptic event. But what the fuck? If I’m so fucking smart, shouldn’t I be like coming up with new psychiatric theories and shit? Hmm. I’m definitely underachieving. And mildly intoxicated too. –giggle–

Let’s just make a little guess of what today’s therapy session was about. That’s right, GUILT. Guilt for my parents spending so much of their very hard-earned money on sending me to school, only to find my over-educated ass frozen in fear after completing my dream. But that topic depresses me and I have wine so let’s go back to happy thoughts of what to do with millions of dollars.

Mainly the big thing would be that I would buy my own shit. I’m sick and embarassed of not being able to take care of myself.

shit, ok, trying again. happy thought.s

MY OWN TV. I’m sick of BF comp;laining about me Bogarting the TiVo remote. Hek’s the one who wanted it. Why are his panties in a knot?

doh. shit. happy thoughts. MOREWINE!!!

if won lottery… hmm. I’d stop buying all my books used. whoa. what a luxkryk. shit. too mcuh wine? ! I STILL HAVE TO PACK. bloddy hell. am.sd ld. wish were ;bridget jones. she’s funnfy when she drinks. bloddy hell. stil lhav eot pack for trip. fuck. cold there. rbing coat and panties and books and what else need??? mm. grrrrrr goes the OEN. woof. bark. EAT.

This evening while I was out running errands, I saw a hot strawberry-blonde guy jogging without a shirt on. Thank goodness I was at a red light, otherwise I would have slowed from forty to ten and run over a dog or two. He was thick. Solid. Broad shoulders. Nice skin. Toned delts. I wanted to just reach over from my green Tahoe and give him a little >squeeze< right on his cute grab-able ass. MMPHHH. Hoo yeah.

I gazed adoringly from my spot at the red light, watching each muscle in his firm back move with each step, and it was only out of the corner of my eye that I noticed the light change. As I accelerated slowly past the hot guy, I tapped my horn twice to catch his attention. He turned just in time to see me do the utterly-feminine finger-wave as I drove off.

Let me just say again: mmph. I would so hit that ass.

Purpose of above story: (besides replaying the scene over and over, but with different outfits on the guy and me having automatic windows so I could have shouted something lewd and disgusting as well) women are crude. I mean it, we can be fucking crude and vile and downright crass.

This may be quite a surprise to some of our men in the audience. And those of our women readers who are fluttering your hands delicately and saying "Oh no, not me, I'm a LADY. I have CLASS."

Shut up. I've seen you gyrating up on bars at bachelorette parties. I've gotten you drunk and heard you say disgusting things to men that made them blush. I've seen your eyes linger over my copies of Playgirl while your lips were saying "Eww that's so gross, stop objectifying men!"

I know you're faking.

All women can be pigs.

It's not just the male of the species wallowing in his own filth over there with the other male-pigs, getting in fights over posters of Eva Longoria and Jessica Biel. It's not just the men who lower their car windows and hoot obscenities. It's not just men who get retarded when they see a set of boobies jiggling in the foreground. Women have Brad Pitt (um, the movie Troy, anyone? my clit still hasn't healed from all the action), Matthew McCaugheneheheyehey, David Beckham, automatic windows, screensavers, desktop backgrounds, camera phones (to take photos of hunky sweating bodies of construction men (HAHA, we sexually objectify them right back! (but only if they're hot, duh, feminism isn't blind for fuckssake))), so allow me to say it again: all women can be pigs.

Now please keep in mind that I am in no way saying women being pigs is a bad thing. Not at all. Women, I beseech you to let loose your inner pig. Roll down that window and tell the delivery guy to bring you a NICE BIG PACKAGE. Post that hot srum-diddily-umptous photo of Jude Law on your computer. Grab that guy's ass in the bar. If you're smooth, grab it in Starbuck's. Let me tell you why it's ok for women to be pigs--

men secretly love it. They love being treated like sex objects. They love hearing a woman cat-calling him to BACK IT UP AGAIN, HONEY PIE, they love knowing we want to see them UH HUH BABY, YOU GO AS SLOW AS YOU WANT WITH THAT LAWN MOWER, MAMA DON'T MIND. Men love it when women act like pigs. I'm not shitting you.

More and more men (gotta love the homosexual influence) are spending more time in the bathroom, the gym, Abercrombie & Fitch, the salons, grooming and attiring themselves into respectable beings that show little resemblence to their actual pig natures. That is hot stuff. I love my metrosexual man with all my heart, and I express it daily by grabbing his ass every single time it's within grabbing range. When he walks into the bedroom naked after a shower, I try to blow a whistle and get spittle all over myself. When he takes off his shirt at the end of the work day, I try to pull down his underwear too. "Heeyyy there hot stuff, let's celebrate the end of the day with some NEKKID TIME!" Our men need to see some appreciation.

Now granted, every once in a while, a guy's bound to get a little sniffy and pissy and push your hands away from his crotch and say, "goddamnit, I'm not just a piece of meat."

I know, sweetie. You're a nice piece of ass, too, NOW TAKE OFF THOSE PANTS.

1. When crossing the street, point at slutty girl standing on opposite corner, proclaim “That bitch! SHE TOOK MY CORNER” and proceed to beat her STD-ridden ass into the gutter where she belongs. Your date will leave because no man wants a girl who can’t keep bitches off her own corner.
2. Have friend call cell phone at pre-agreed upon time. Answer “What?? There’s an emergency with Pappy the hamster?! I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!” and run out door crying.
3. Clutch left arm, grab heart, gasp uncontrollably, fall out of chair, and shout “HEART… HEART ATTACK!” when concerned date comes to your aid, start giggling and proudly proclaim “LOOKS LIKE MY LOVE FOR YOU IS TOO MUCH FOR MY HEART TO TAKE!!” and date will leave of his own accord over your bad and sick sense of humor
4. “Accidentally” run into large guy. Start screaming at him that he should apologize for trampling on your twenty-dollar whore clear plastic shoes. Grab date and demand that he defend your honor. When he doesn’t, start pounding date with your huge purse full of silverware swiped from restaurant. That’ll teach him to respect a lady.
5. As soon as he asks how are you, start crying with great heaving sobs and wail “he said he looooooooved meee!” and if he’s one of those Mr. Sensitive types who don’t scare off easily, blow your nose on his sleeve.
6. Show up dressed in a wedding gown. Fling yourself at date, happily saying “I could just tell from the moment we spoke that you were The One! Mama and Daddy are waiting in the car to meet you!”
7. If date has been making lustful eyes at you throughout the date, roll your eyes, throw him a wrinkled twenty dollar bill, and tell him “Here you go buddy, the blowjob’s on me tonight” and walk out.
8. As soon as you see date, look him up and down, groan, and tell him, “I’m sorry, but there’s been some sort of mistake. Our friend must have gotten confused–I’m not a lesbian. I don’t date women.” When date replies that he is not a woman, respond “Sweetie, take the hint. I only date manly men.”
9. Be very very quiet all evening. When date asks what’s wrong, take your steak knife and plunge it repeatedly into your palm while screaming “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CAT STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CAT YOU FREAK I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE”
10. Shortly into date, lean over and ask him “Look, I’m just on this date for the sex. I need to know upfront if you’re cool with strap-on’s, because otherwise there’s this hot dyke over by the pool table I want to go home with.”