Sunday, March 23, 2014

For the Betterment of Mankind

We all know my pathetic dating life is entertaining to many, including myself.  Most recently, however, it has turned into fodder for my married friends who love to ask me, “So what’s going on with that guy?”  And, like Pavlov’s dog, my response has turned into an immediate, “Which one?”  By all means, I don’t answer this way in jest either.  Guys I “date” (I use that term very loosely) fly in and out of my life quicker than I change tampons on my most heaviest days – sorry for being crude, but it’s the best comparison for producing the dramatic effect most representative of my situation.  On any given day, I can’t remember which guy was the subject of which conversation with which friend…because generally what happens is that if I do meet someone I’m interested in seeing again (this doesn’t happen too often), before I’ve finished telling my friend about how great I think he is and how excited I am to go on another date with him again, he’s already hit “send” on “that text” (we all know which one that is). 

But I’d like to think of my dating debacles as my public service contribution for the betterment of mankind.  See, while guys think it’s funny when I write in my profile that I am on the site for “research purposes”, the fact is, that I am.  And, I’d like to think that through my last year of dating fieldwork, I am well on my way to earning a PhD in the Anthropology of Douche Bagging.  Being a researcher, however, one must research a particular subject and present the findings based on the research data collected.  Although I plan on writing a full dissertation on my findings after more intense research, I’d like to present to you with some of my findings thus far:

1.   Males species who have recently gone through a “separation” are to be avoided at all costs.  Despite what they tell you, they present acute symptoms of “newlysingleitis”…a condition that causes them to seek out unsuspecting women and woo them with false-intentioned dating rituals.  The subject’s goals in this is to make himself feel “desired” and that “he still has it” despite being in a loveless marriage for many years where he wasn’t getting any and he gained about 30 pounds.  He will repeatedly tell his dates that he "checked out" of his marriage years before and is completely over it.  This type of male will exhibit symptoms such as hiring a personal trainer, becoming a vegetarian, doing yoga, getting a stylist, waxing his back, eye brows and groin area and frequenting online dating sites hunting for younger, attractive women.  This male is not looking for a relationship in any way, shape or form.  Once these males sense that the female object of their desire is interested, the subjects will quickly retreat and whip out the pre-printed "I just got separated" card, which likely have the imprint of a condom as it is generally stored right next to it in his wallet.

2.     A most unique subject is the male species in the 19-22 year old category.  These boys suffer from an affliction I have labeled “cougaritis”.  “Cougaritis” presents itself with the following symptoms:  a propensity to use the term “hey” as a mating call; extreme eagerness to “score” including contacting proposed mates at all hours of the night to just “cuddle”; submissiveness (these subjects are agreeable to just about anything you will do to them; vomit and feces are no exception); and an inability to grasp that females of the opposite sex (in the 35-45 age range) do not find headwear tilted to the side, long plastic cups in fluorescent colors and their mother’s flowered shower curtain shown via typical shirtless, bathroom mirror photos as sexually stimulating.


Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Mediocrity Is, As Mediocrity Does

I know it has been quite some time since my last entry…and it is not at all that I have forgotten or tossed this aside…but my lack of writing has stemmed from my complete fear and distaste of mediocrity.  Some of you have grown pissed at me as a result, and I do half-heartedly apologize, but it has really been for your own good.  See, it would be incredibly easy for me to sit down and write something craptastic for you, but instead I chose to self-censor myself.  For instance, I could have effortlessly told you about my angst when two guys broke up with me on the same day even though I wasn’t dating either of them (which, as was incredibly appropriate for the occasion, also happened to be the same day as my dick-in-a-box party).  Or, I could have lashed out in written form about the indignity of the other two guys that failed to show up at an event I had invited them to even though both said they would…yes, I know, quite the intentional faux pas on my part but I decided to take my chances on at least one making an appearance or hoping they’d both show up because I would definitely have some good writing…ultimately, they both blew me off, which, although a disappointment, was not a total shocker.  The night was salvaged, however, because I ended up meeting someone else at the after-party.  So, despite not getting felt up that night by either of the guys I shaved my legs for, having to deal with the  pimples in the morning from wearing make-up was not completely for naught.  Even better, though, I could have bored you about the date with a strikingly handsome younger man I almost punched in the face before asking the waiter for the check and storming out all because of a Middle Eastern politics exchange gone totally wrong.  According to him, Assad’s positive contributions to the Syrian economy and democracy in the Middle East outweighed the lunatic's crimes against humanity.  Needless to say, this didn’t bode well for my date at that particular moment and he later dubbed me “CP” for “Check Please!” 

Still though, I somewhat take pride in anything I create, so the very thought of providing you with mediocrity is on par with me waking up next to a wealthy, short and bald CEO of fledgling technology company with a major Napoleon complex who is still wearing his country club embroidered golf shirt and is donning an attitude like he just did me a favor.  At one point in my life, though, I would have settled for mediocrity and, in fact, I did all too often for all too long – I married Mediocrity, slept with Mediocrity, ate at Mediocrity, shopped at Mediocrity, wore Mediocrity, wiped with Mediocrity, drank Mediocrity, swam in Mediocrity, waited for Mediocrity to call or just have fucking Mediocrity remember my name in the morning….all until I realized that Mediocrity was, well, mediocre.   And if I have learned anything from my past, which is debatable on most days, it is that I can also tell Mediocrity to fuck off at my leisure…

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Is This Thing On?

Yes, I know it has been far too long since my last blog entry and I sincerely apologize.  Unfortunately, I have been suffering from a severe case of doucheblock, which should not in any way be confused with writer's block.  

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Ode to Moi

I may not be the skinniest 
on the block 
the tatas 
are still perky… 

#suckonthis #perksofdatingme #pencilswillfall

Reached over 1,000 page views today
Thank You!!!  


Trying to whore out my me out people @dbmanifesto #blogwhore #spreadthedouche

Tuesday, January 14, 2014


          I really want to set the record straight about something for sake of any actual or presumed misinterpretation by my readers.  Despite my rants about douche bags that I have openly associated with males (trust me, there are plenty of female douche bags out there and I don’t mean to discriminate but douche bags with vaginas can be someone else’s project), I do not hate men – quite the contrary.  My propensity for being a douche bag magnet has nothing to do with what I really think of men in general, the opposite sex which I am utterly smitten by and, for lack of better words, rather addicted to. 

But addiction is a strange thing – you know logically something may be bad for you, but for whatever reason (disclaimer:  I am by no means an addiction specialist nor am I claiming to be one) you cannot refuse it if that very thing is presented in front of you and if it’s not readily available, it’s quite difficult to not think about it or crave it with the hope that once you do hold “it” again in your hands, it will recreate the initial bliss that attracted you to it in the first place.  It is that climatic event that I am hereby dubbing the “addiction moment”.  Whether or not that place is ever reachable again is debatable but it doesn’t stop you from ultimately seeking it and re-seeking it to bring you back to that very instance and experience. 

At this point you are likely curious about my “addiction moment” which has since led me down the path to my current plight with douche bags and for which I am now spearheading the creation of a douche bag anonymous 12-step program…right?  Right.  And fortunately for you, I think I know exactly when and what it was because I happen to be incredibly in touch with myself (and, no, that is not a result of my lack of a sexual partner in way too many months).  In all seriousness here though, it occurred at a very critical juncture of my life…my very first interaction with the touch of a human being, which like most women born in this region of the world during the 1970s, happened to be with a man...

            Let me re-create here my “addiction moment” for you:    

It was the summer of 1975 in Paterson, NJ.  Comb over and all, the man of one million pussies and counting, the infamous Dr. R. strategically placed each hand on either side of my head and purposefully lured me from the abyss between my mother’s legs and straight towards him…or more accurately, his groin.  There was nothing obscene or twisted with this gesture or his intent - he was doing exactly what he was medically trained to do - pull me out of her and towards him.  Still though, keep in mind his positioning at the moment of my entre to the world…my mother lay on a hospital bed with legs wide open before him spewing obscenities at everyone and anyone around her; he stood before her tasked with extracting me from her jaws of captivity and out towards him which also happened to coincide with his groin area…the “by default” place I was heading, literally.  And, to be clear, I was not resisting…if anyone knows my mother, she can only be taken in small doses, if that, so after 9 months of being held inside her, I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there and if it meant going for the groin, well then the groin was the light at the end of the fucking tunnel and I was going for it with everything my 8 ½ pound being had (it just so happens that this would eventually metaphorically happen again years later…but I will leave that story to another time). 

            Now, although the “going-for-the-groin” wasn’t exactly my “addiction moment”, it definitely had some kind of psychological impact on me which years later has and continues to likely yield a nice contribution to the trust fund of my psychoanalyst’s secret son…but again, that’s not really the point of the story because the pivotal point is what actually happened after my birthing moment.  Let’s return back to the scene: 

Upon my release into the world and before I was able to at the very least have a moment to figure out where the fuck I was or even take my first solo breathe and hopefully get a whiff of the cigarette-laden air (again, being attached to my mom for 9 months, I came out desperately needing a cigarette), Dr. R. ceremoniously grabbed hold of my tiny body in one hand, raised me for display under the bright lights (in retrospect, likely the beginning of my exhibitionist tendencies), announced I was in fact a "girl", and in one sweeping gesture proceeded to slap my ass and make me scream…
Need I say more???