Booty Call Text Message

Last night, while I was basking in the beautiful LED glow of an HD episode of 24: Season 8 playing on my MacBook, I received an unexpected text message from a male stripper I made out with back in December, on the eve of my very first trip to the ER for alcohol poisoning. He wanted to know if I was "still cute." I told him I thought so. This, while Jack Bauer was contemplating whether or not to assassinate Russian President Suvarov and risk starting a nuclear holocaust in an unprecedented moment of suspense. Let me just pat myself on the back right now for my skills at multitasking.

After all the perfunctory "what have you been up to lately?" chitchat was exhausted, Mr. Eastern European sausage dancer then cut to the chase and asked me if he could come over. 

I didn't respond. If there's one thing I've learned from my almost pathological consumption of 24 over the past five years (Jesus is to Christians what Jack Bauer is to me), it's that some requests don't deserve an answer. Did Jack Bauer respond when enemy combatants threatened to Taser his nipples if he didn't reveal that's he's really an undercover agent working for the government rather than an independent German arms dealer operating out of Asia? Well, kind of...he told them to go to hell. 

Of course he didn't give in. Nipples have no function in men. He had them to spare.

 

I, on the other hand, thought silence would be a much more telling response. I'd rather be lonely on a Thursday night during my walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Singledom than be pathetic enough to respond to a booty call text message. In the words of Cher from Clueless, the quintessential babe philosopher: As if.

Inconvenient Feelings

I'm not one to unleash the muddy riptides of my heart onto those closest to me, only to have them drown in the flood. So let me just allow this circling notion to alight here so that I'm no longer tempted to confide in a friend: I just want to lay in bed with him all day and inhale the smell of his skin like oxygen. 

But instead I'll sit here watching the dust settle, waiting for the next time I'm able to hear him mutter words from dreams in his sleep and feel him wrap his arms around me in the middle of the night to inoculate me against the cold, like a palm encircling a dying flame.  

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman

Who am I?

I am a deeply complicated young woman.

I enjoy long walks, preferably in air conditioning.

I believe that the day is best started with a can of Red Bull Total (no sugar, no carbs) and a self-induced orgasm.

I have a masochistic affinity for exorbitantly priced designer footwear, despite the fact that it is a derivative of Chinese foot binding torture that has resulted in an unsightly Hallux valgus on both my feet (pain is beauty).

I have no time for you if you don’t know the difference between Sartre and Beckett; Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis; Tanqueray and Tanqueray 10. 

Preventative botox was my best idea ever. 

All of my friends are female, as the ones that were male all wanted to fuck me, and so it became semi-awkward.

The Unabomber rocking dem Aviators

I prefer reading New Scientist magazine over Cosmopolitan; Patricia Highsmith over Sophie Kinsella; the Unabomber Manifesto over The Secret (I “visualized” a hundred million dollars, so where the fuck is my money?).

I jaywalk because I can’t be bothered to walk the ten extra feet to the crosswalk (there's two minutes of my life I will never get back).

I enjoy pointing out to self-identified faux-Buddhist hipster “pacifists” that they still swat mosquitoes and take antibiotics (you murderers). 

I support strip clubs (as long as you’ve had your Twinrex vaccine), as they’re good grounds for research into what hair extensions never to buy.  

Cher Horowitz > Mother Teresa.

Bling bling, bitches

I have monogrammed, bejeweled license plate frames to make it easier for kidnappers to identify me.

My voicemail box is always full.

I’m a bit of a bitch…but hopefully an entertaining one, for all you fellow bitches out there.