The Over-Educated Nympho

As a nympho I receive many propositions from guys who promise to rock my world, pleez me up and down, make me feel like a woman, you name it they promise it. Sometimes the email simply says something like “hey baby im six feet tall, blue eyes, 180 lbs, 8″ of pure man, and can make you cum all night long.”

Aw, how sweet. Nothing woos the pants off a girl like an email filled with such dazzling displays of poetry. Good golly gosh, call me bedazzled. The guys who are nice enough to appeal to the over-educated side of me will also mention their IQ. Let’s not forget the real geniuses out there who fill their emails with six-syllable words that I’m pretty sure are not being used or even spelled correctly.

Wow. The pants are practically flying off my crotch in excitement.

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In honor of National Singles Awareness Day, I have made a card that can be printed and given to your person of choice. Although it is directed at ex-boyfriends [aHEM, Matthew–this is for 1998], it works equally well for anyone who is so sadly drowning in his own douchebaggery that he doesn’t understand why he is still single. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the pet name for his penis is “your royal hotness,” or that he thinks the g-spot is an urban myth, or that he likes to give himself the double-guns and a wink in the mirror before leaving the restroom.

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Thursday is the Valentine’s Day. Weee. It must be losing its pizazz because even my married friends are very meh about Valentines this year. That actually makes me a tiny bit sad, for it takes away from the magic that is National Singles Awareness Day. Stop it, Marrieds! This is our holiday for disdain! Shame on you. Give up sex for Lent instead.

I’ve got some goodies in store for you this week, but until then, here are posts from the last couple years that are relevant:

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In addition to spending many quality hours staring at cows and tin-box churches during my drive yesterday, I came across many types of drivers on the highway. The asshole on a cell phone, the bright yellow Porsche driving at 120 mph, the car that has smoke coming from its hood, and many others.

I’m sure I have flicked off hundreds of people in my years of driving, and every one of the bastards deserved it. I’m very precise in my flipping the bird. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been told I flick-off at the level of a 50 year-old asshole. Just ask my dad, he taught me everything I know about driving etiquette.

Thanks to my fellow Texans for being so inspiring, many of whom I address in this post. Fucking bastards. LEARN TO DRIVE.
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Somehow I ended up in the perky department at work. Oddly enough all these “perky” coworkers are men. The partner I work for is the perkiest of them all, which on Monday mornings like today can make the not-so-inner bitch fight to come out. The first time he sees me in every day he asks me how I’m doing. “Fine” is never enough for this man–he wants a whole paragraph. Nothing but sarcastic answers laced with vinegar fill my head. This means that I actually take time in the mornings to think about what I’m going to say when he asks me so that something respectable comes out of my mouth.

One of these days I’m worried that my sarcasm filter is going to be overflowing to the point that a piece of poorly-disguised snark manages to slip out. It almost happened today. These were some of the gems that surely would have gotten me fired, or at least put in isolation:

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Over the course of this blog I have received many propositions for sex. Fine, whatever, it’s to be expected with a blog name such as “The Over-Educated Nympho.” Lately I have received more propositions* than usual in response to my frequent complaint that IT’S BEEN THREE AND A HALF MONTHS, kindly offering a willing specimen to suck off.

Golly gee whiz and shucks, that is just too sweet of you!* I am delighted to hear that you are “a givr” and “luv sexy nymp-hos lik u” and that you “have an IQ of 153 and an 8-inch cock, work in a pristegous law firm, and love dogs.” Wow. I mean that is truly awesome at its awesome-ist. So awesome I nearly forgot to hit delete and cackle.

Sadly it has come to the point that there are so many propositions that I simply can’t keep them straight. I hired a clever high school boy with pimples to set up a form and a database to make the selection process easier. I mean, when comparing such gems as “eats lunch with other Ivy Leaguers” and “luv ur pussy mama,” what is a girl to do? Well, I mean other than point and laugh.

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Until tonight, I had not seen Hot Moron since this brief shirtless sighting. Prior to that I had not talked to him since his attempt to win over my affections with red meat. –shakes head in direction of his apartment–

Come on now sweetie, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if the equation HOT GUY + STEAKS = HAPPY MEAT LOVIN’ VIX doesn’t add up, it’s because there’s another factor missing. Like (-) COMMON FUCKING SENSE, (-) KNOWING WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP, or perhaps (-) A MALIGNANT CASE OF DUMBASS.

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We all know one of those people. Someone perfect. She is smart, gorgeous, sexy (yet modest), funny, and sweet. Most people can’t hate someone like this because she’s so nice. But I can. That’s the great thing about not being perfect–no one is surprised when you say things that prove yet again what a far cry you are from “decent human being,” let alone “respectable” or “perfect.”

That person swimming in fabulousness is so fucking perfect it makes me shit. She got married at twenty two (and will probably live happily ever after, damn her), got the perfect job right out of graduation, by age twenty six has saved up enough money for a down payment on a beautiful house in an area with an excellent school system for the wonderful 2.3 children they will have (also perfect, right down to a short labor and getting potty trained as soon as they can stand), and by twenty-eight has an amazingly $ucce$$ful career without having sacrificed her family or her sense of self. And to top it off, when she’s fifty years old I’m sure she will look fantastic (no botox or control-top underwear necessary) and still have orgasmic sex three times a week.

The bitch.

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This situation with Hot Moron is getting absurd. Excellent blog material, but absurd nonetheless. If I ran out of people to make fun of I… well I don’t know what I would do. Cry at the justice of it all? And then make fun of myself? But that’s not nearly as much fun because I know why I am the way I am. It’s only funny half the time. The other half it’s kinda depressing and yada yada yada give me my fucking Xanax.

So it is a great thing that Hot Moron continues to unintentionally provide me with lots of opportunity for ridicule. When I move out next month I’ll leave a bag of charcoal at his front door in appreciation.

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It has been a beautiful weekend here in Texas, so I fulfilled my patriotic bikini-clad duty and went to the pool this afternoon. I had been there for about an hour reading peacefully when I heard a familiar “Hey.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK.

It was the guy I met at the pool a couple weeks ago, aka Homophobic Moron Who Doesn’t Know When To Shut The Fuck Up And Also Doesn’t Understand That You Shouldn’t Burp When You’re Trying To Impress A Girl [but that’s way too long to type out, so he will simply be called Hot Moron]. The one who was oh so very pretty to look at, and was nice enough, but had a bad case of Dumbass. I had to pretend-nap to get him to go away. I pulled a pretend-nap on a hot guy. That’s some prize-winning dumbass.

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On Saturday I went to the pool for the first time this spring. Ah, this is the fleeting and precious time that Texas has perfect weather, which means I will be enjoying it as much as I can before it becomes so hot and humid that I break a sweat walking from the car to my mailbox.

If you’ll recall, last summer the pool scene was a source of great amusement (and blog material). So when I went to the pool for the first time this weekend, I have to admit I was hoping for a little drama. A little something fun to kick off the swimming season. I was not disappointed.

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To Whom It May Concern:

I am very happy that you like my blog and you have been reading it every day for two days now. I am very grateful for your help in psychoveranalyzing my mental dysfunctions based on all five posts you read (three of which were about blowjobs, the other two you skimmed looking for dirty pictures). Most of all, I am honored to be graced with your offer of “cumming to TX to rock my wrrrld.” Except that I’m lying.

Sadly I do not have an Intern George to send out to cuddle you in his delicate yet masculine arms, since clearly you are reaching out to me for something larger than yourself. But I do have a half-eaten turkey sandwich. Perhaps I could send you that instead? It’s got mayonnaise on it. Yum-yum in the tum-tum!

xoxo [redacted]
Vix
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To put things in perspective on how NOT to win over a nerd-turned-nympho over the romantic environment that is cyberspace (although I think it is safe to say that the majority of these apply to any girl whose MySpace profile doesn’t include photos showing off her fascination with contortionism), here are some general guidelines:

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