I’d like to discuss a terrible, apocalyptic epidemic that is sweeping the dating scene. No, no, not Syphighonnochlamydia. Dirty, dirty! I’m talking about Disappearing.
We’ve all been there: you’re talking to someone you like. Maybe you’ve gone out with them. Perhaps you’ve put the naughty on them. So you call one day and leave a message on their voicemail. You have every right to call this individual because at some point in time, they have displayed obvious interest in you whether by chatting you up on the phone or bending your legs back over your head. Whatever.
You’d think they would return your call, right? You’d think that they would recognize the fact that you are a human being with a soul whose existence deserves to be acknowledged, right? So here begins the problem. They don’t call back. Ever. You might hear from them in an indirect way, like through a mutual friend, or you might even be so lucky as to be carbon copied on an e-mail from them. But they never call.
Now I know we’ve also all been on the other side of this where the person we’ve been halfway seeing leaves us a message that we never return. But those people are like, hideous atrocities of nature! You know? They need extensive dental work and say weird shit like, “I love how natural we are together. Do you believe in destiny?” on the first date. They’re like carnies! So you blow them off until they stop calling because they make you feel car sick! Perfectly reasonable, right?
So here is my dilemma. Am I a carnie? Do I look like a cat rapist? Do I need to be taken out back and euthanized for my own good? Because I know that I’ve never said anything even remotely as Velveeta-on-ball-sac-cheesy as some of the canned lines that I’ve gotten from the guys that I’ve blown off. So how can we, arguably the hottest, most fabulous, educated, interesting, funny, intelligent people in the world, possibly be the victims of The Disappearance?
We are too gorgeous to be ditched so unceremoniously. We at least deserve a fucking phone call. A little, “Hi there. Yeah, I was just calling to tell you that I am no longer able to stick it in (and or to) you. I have realized that you are a golden shining ray of divinity and that I am a huge sick piece of shit. I am nothing, and you are the most perfect being that has ever been or ever will be. I have decided to erect a shrine to you in my basement where I will commence furiously masturbating to photographs of you rather than keeping you from dating more worthy partners. I will only ever truly love you, but am completely unworthy of your attention. Bye.” Now wouldn’t that be nice?
I honestly have no explanation for Disappearing. I suppose it’s a one man’s carnie is another man’s hottie thing. But damn them for denying us hottie status! It’s total horseshit! But at least we know that we are, in fact, unstoppable sex beasts. Screw those avoidy a holes! Just remember babies. Mama here loves you and thinks you’re delicious. It’s those chicken shit tools that are blind and crazy.
What's My Mothafuckin' Name
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Did I mention that dating sucks? Please, allow me to elaborate, not that I need to after the whole Gropey Groperson story, but humor me. I met this very cute boy at the Brookie. He seemed normal and nice, which is a huge change for me. Usually, I try to find the most angst ridden, emotionally unavailable, tortured soul around and fall madly in lust with him only to be consistently spurned and rejected. So, as you can see, this one was a brand new flavor or lickable ice cream that I was dying to taste.
I should have known. His name was Ken. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ken. It’s a fine name. But come on. Ken and Summer? It sounds like some hideous Mattel cartoon about a pair of squirrels! I always said that I’d have to end up with somebody who has a cool name because mine is so weird. Like Summer and Trent, or Summer and Razor, or maybe Summer and Thor. I don’t know … something to that effect. Regardless, that was my first hint.
He started out so pleasant, calling two days after getting my number rather than drunk dialing the night of in the manner of, “Heeeeeyyyy, Sunshine…I mean Sunny…Oh wait, hey guys! What was that bitch’s name I met earlier? Oh yeah, SUMMER! It’s (insert name that clashes hideously with my own.) Dude, we’re gonna (insert lame “event” that is just starting at 3:30AM that is poorly masquerading as a sad excuse for getting me to his place, preferably so drunk that I will willingly throw myself at said loser.) Call me, babe!!!” At least Ken wasn’t so obvious. We actually had nice phone conversations and set up a date for Thursday. His fatal mistake was when he made the cursory here’s-the-plan-for-tomorrow phone call on Wednesday. It went a little something like this:
Summer: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Ken: I don’t know. I spent way too much money last weekend on booze. I spent like $350, so funds are a little low.
Summer: *Thinking to self* Oh. Oh! Now that’s classy. This guy is clearly an alcoholic who has no impulse control.
Ken: And anyway, I’m pretty tired. If I’m still this tired, we should just rent a movie and bring it back to my place.
Summer: *Thinking to self* What the fuck? Does your tiredness grow exponentially? Take a nap, you ass licker! And do you really think I’m going to go to your house for a first date? Can you say el cheapo axe murderer?
Ken: So I’ll just call you tomorrow around 6PM and let you know what’s going on.
Summer: Uh. Ok. Talk to you later. *Thinking to self* LAME!!!! Make plans with me before 6PM of the night of!
Needless to say, this did not sit well with me. So I called him back and left a message along the lines of, sorry, pal! I don’t go out with guys who “take” me on dates to their house because they are too cheap to take me out. Hello!!! Do I look like I want to be sexually assaulted? So alas, I remain dateless once again. But I think it was the right decision, don’t you? Well, babies, until next time…hooray for vibrators!
I should have known. His name was Ken. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ken. It’s a fine name. But come on. Ken and Summer? It sounds like some hideous Mattel cartoon about a pair of squirrels! I always said that I’d have to end up with somebody who has a cool name because mine is so weird. Like Summer and Trent, or Summer and Razor, or maybe Summer and Thor. I don’t know … something to that effect. Regardless, that was my first hint.
He started out so pleasant, calling two days after getting my number rather than drunk dialing the night of in the manner of, “Heeeeeyyyy, Sunshine…I mean Sunny…Oh wait, hey guys! What was that bitch’s name I met earlier? Oh yeah, SUMMER! It’s (insert name that clashes hideously with my own.) Dude, we’re gonna (insert lame “event” that is just starting at 3:30AM that is poorly masquerading as a sad excuse for getting me to his place, preferably so drunk that I will willingly throw myself at said loser.) Call me, babe!!!” At least Ken wasn’t so obvious. We actually had nice phone conversations and set up a date for Thursday. His fatal mistake was when he made the cursory here’s-the-plan-for-tomorrow phone call on Wednesday. It went a little something like this:
Summer: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Ken: I don’t know. I spent way too much money last weekend on booze. I spent like $350, so funds are a little low.
Summer: *Thinking to self* Oh. Oh! Now that’s classy. This guy is clearly an alcoholic who has no impulse control.
Ken: And anyway, I’m pretty tired. If I’m still this tired, we should just rent a movie and bring it back to my place.
Summer: *Thinking to self* What the fuck? Does your tiredness grow exponentially? Take a nap, you ass licker! And do you really think I’m going to go to your house for a first date? Can you say el cheapo axe murderer?
Ken: So I’ll just call you tomorrow around 6PM and let you know what’s going on.
Summer: Uh. Ok. Talk to you later. *Thinking to self* LAME!!!! Make plans with me before 6PM of the night of!
Needless to say, this did not sit well with me. So I called him back and left a message along the lines of, sorry, pal! I don’t go out with guys who “take” me on dates to their house because they are too cheap to take me out. Hello!!! Do I look like I want to be sexually assaulted? So alas, I remain dateless once again. But I think it was the right decision, don’t you? Well, babies, until next time…hooray for vibrators!
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Unemployment and Groping
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I am sending out the tragic tales of my sad, sad life in the hopes of brightening your day. You may recall the Travel Chronicles, but as I will not be leaving again any time soon, I’ll just have to pretend that my life is interesting enough to read about. And so will you, God damn it. My darling Becca has convinced me to share my woes in an effort to be fabulous like SJP and possibly publish said letters in an effort to be employed. But please don’t feel obligated to read these. I will take absolutely no offense if you’d like to be removed from the list of privileged recipients. I will only hate you for all eternity and put some serious consideration into skinning, boiling, and eating your pets.
So let’s talk about some of the highlights of being me. First of all, I am excruciatingly good looking. But you knew that, so we can move on. I am unemployed and live with my parents. But that’s lame, so we can go back to discussing my innate hotness. Just kidding! Let’s talk about unemployment.
Last July, I was offered an interview. They schmoozed me bigtime and I ran on the figurative wheel like a good little hammie. I answered all their hideous questions and grinned like a psycho as though discussing my utter lack of experience in the workforce and my crappy GPA was the bestest, yummiest morsel of which I would happily shove into my cheek.
Then, after that whole nightmare, I got a glorious phone call. The clouds parted, the sky cracked open and God Himself reached his fucking arm through just to tell me that indeed there was a position for me, but that I would have to wait until they had filled the currently ones internally. So I said hooray! I’ll be happy to wait around like an ugly girl on prom night who’s “date” is 5 hours “late.” So I waited. And waited. AND WAITED. I finally got sick of waiting and hassled them via lovely hand written notes. I was rewarded with a second interview. Goodie. I commenced dancing like a trick monkey once more in an attempt to secure a job. Again, interview was all smiles and laughter. And surprise, surprise, I waited.
Would you like to know what kinds of delicious, shiny fruits blossomed from all this waiting? Hmmm? A bit fat phone call from the recruiter saying, “Aw shucks. You’re spectacularly cute and all, but we’ve gone ahead and filled all those positions that we casually dangled in front of you like so much Halloween Oreo. Sorry, Sweet Tits.”
And that is how I got back to square one. Roughly six weeks wasted on banking on this job because they totally freaking offered it to me. I’m hosed! So, got any job ideas? Know anybody that works somewhere that’s hiring? You can tell them that I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose and that I can put my legs behind my head and spin like a dreidel. Seriously, if you hear anything, holla back, young’n.
Oh boy. So now let’s talk about that kinda sorta date I had last week. All right, it started out good. He was really tall and cute and cool. You know, kind of bizarre sense of humor, which is a thumbs up. Then *dun dun daaaaa* he kept drinking. And drinking. And DRINKING. Oh my God. It was unbelievable. He got so out of control that he was like flinging me around on the dance floor and trying to get me to take him home to my parents' house to "hang out." Riiiiight.
So, as the fates would have it, I got too licq-ied to drive home, and I ended up at Cecilee's with everyone else. I told him that he would not be getting any nookie. He slobbered a bit and a drooled on his shirt and agreed that this was "cool." He proceeded to paw at me for the better part of an hour, during which time I pretended to be asleep. He finally passed out and I thankfully fell asleep. So that's the happy ending, right? No. He woke me up yet AGAIN. This time, all 6’8, roughly 270lbs on top of me with a hand on my right ta-ta. Can you say necrophiliac? Hello! So I got out of there. Fast. I ended up jogging barefoot to my car in Cec's jammies at 5 in the morning. Needless to say, I will not be seeing him again.
Alas, my angels, this concludes the first chapter of The Chronicles. I hope you enjoyed them and will continue to do so. Be Bad.
So let’s talk about some of the highlights of being me. First of all, I am excruciatingly good looking. But you knew that, so we can move on. I am unemployed and live with my parents. But that’s lame, so we can go back to discussing my innate hotness. Just kidding! Let’s talk about unemployment.
Last July, I was offered an interview. They schmoozed me bigtime and I ran on the figurative wheel like a good little hammie. I answered all their hideous questions and grinned like a psycho as though discussing my utter lack of experience in the workforce and my crappy GPA was the bestest, yummiest morsel of which I would happily shove into my cheek.
Then, after that whole nightmare, I got a glorious phone call. The clouds parted, the sky cracked open and God Himself reached his fucking arm through just to tell me that indeed there was a position for me, but that I would have to wait until they had filled the currently ones internally. So I said hooray! I’ll be happy to wait around like an ugly girl on prom night who’s “date” is 5 hours “late.” So I waited. And waited. AND WAITED. I finally got sick of waiting and hassled them via lovely hand written notes. I was rewarded with a second interview. Goodie. I commenced dancing like a trick monkey once more in an attempt to secure a job. Again, interview was all smiles and laughter. And surprise, surprise, I waited.
Would you like to know what kinds of delicious, shiny fruits blossomed from all this waiting? Hmmm? A bit fat phone call from the recruiter saying, “Aw shucks. You’re spectacularly cute and all, but we’ve gone ahead and filled all those positions that we casually dangled in front of you like so much Halloween Oreo. Sorry, Sweet Tits.”
And that is how I got back to square one. Roughly six weeks wasted on banking on this job because they totally freaking offered it to me. I’m hosed! So, got any job ideas? Know anybody that works somewhere that’s hiring? You can tell them that I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose and that I can put my legs behind my head and spin like a dreidel. Seriously, if you hear anything, holla back, young’n.
Oh boy. So now let’s talk about that kinda sorta date I had last week. All right, it started out good. He was really tall and cute and cool. You know, kind of bizarre sense of humor, which is a thumbs up. Then *dun dun daaaaa* he kept drinking. And drinking. And DRINKING. Oh my God. It was unbelievable. He got so out of control that he was like flinging me around on the dance floor and trying to get me to take him home to my parents' house to "hang out." Riiiiight.
So, as the fates would have it, I got too licq-ied to drive home, and I ended up at Cecilee's with everyone else. I told him that he would not be getting any nookie. He slobbered a bit and a drooled on his shirt and agreed that this was "cool." He proceeded to paw at me for the better part of an hour, during which time I pretended to be asleep. He finally passed out and I thankfully fell asleep. So that's the happy ending, right? No. He woke me up yet AGAIN. This time, all 6’8, roughly 270lbs on top of me with a hand on my right ta-ta. Can you say necrophiliac? Hello! So I got out of there. Fast. I ended up jogging barefoot to my car in Cec's jammies at 5 in the morning. Needless to say, I will not be seeing him again.
Alas, my angels, this concludes the first chapter of The Chronicles. I hope you enjoyed them and will continue to do so. Be Bad.
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Travel Chronicles Seattle - Letters
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Man, I'm Horny
My little granolas,
Oh Seattle. Land of flannel and grunge. (Moment of silence for Kurt...) Too bad I'm not raging with large, unclean hair, a huge sweatshirt, and Birkenstocks to kickin' live music a la Soudgarden. *sigh*
I am too busy chasing my nephew around and slapping my hand over my twitching eye. The family is enough to make the entire left side of my body twitch and for me to adopt a sloppy lisp. (My name is Schummer! Thisch isch my schisiter, sCheschilee. You're schooooo schescxy!!!)
But the Pacific Northwest is very pretty and we have finally escaped the 9th circle of hell that is my aunt and uncle's house. We're in the Four Season's and I just took the best shower. Not a Ginny shower, but close. The shower gel/shampoo smells like the hottest man that could ever exist. I was in there mouth breathing like a cat in heat.
UUUUUUUNNNNH! I like it like that! Whew. But I couldn't seal the deal with my family in the next room, so I am left smelling like a gorgeous man and terribly frustrated. Grrr. So I'll be home Weds, and I think we should all booze this weekend. What do ya say?
w/love,
Sum
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