In case you missed the Blog Hop backstory, you can read about it HERE.
The goal was to demonstrate that an episode of either Anxiety or Depression can in fact have an application: awesome, and sometimes downright hilarious fiction. Why not laugh at the quirks? Sitting around and crying into a bowl of chicken noodle soup never did shit for me personally. Everybody on the tour has had some kind of experience with either, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we also know how to write some kick ass fiction. Screw the label. Screw the stigma. At the source of it all is an active imagination, and a fabulous fictional tale awaits.
There are twelve writers ahead of me today, with each of them featuring the next part of this highly outlandish tale, and each post is around 200 words. Here’s a double shot of humor to go along with your morning espresso.
*kicks door down Chuck Norris-style*
The Most Outlandish Tale About Anxiety and Depression Ever Told
So anyways, I was meandering around the mall the other day, bags in hand, when I accidentally ran into this little elderly lady with white hair. We literally ran into each other. Clumsy me. We were both very apologetic toward each other after the bump-in however, and immediately went our separate ways.
A short while later, I accidentally bumped into the same elderly woman while in a different outlet store, only this time I was in a hurry, so I ran into her pretty hard – like, she was on one leg at some point and almost kicked me in the face as she was tipping backwards. The woman was less apologetic this time as she adjusted her knee-highs, but managed to eek out a half-grin before we again parted company.
I was starting to grow a little bit paranoid at this point, hoping that I wouldn’t accidentally run into her again. I started thinking about all these crazy what-if scenarios, and my head turned into a washing machine of bad thoughts…
What if she had a contagious skin infection? Maybe I should find a bathroom and scrub my arm? What if we keep bumping into each other for a reason? What’s the reason? Maybe she’s my soulmate? WHAT IF SHE WORKS FOR THE MOB AND SHE’S GONNA FUCKING KILL ME IF I BUMP INTO HER AGAIN?!
I had to get out, and quickly.
My fragile existence was now at stake and…
…THAT LEG WAS PRETTY HAIRY TOO NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT!
I dashed out the mall entrance door and threw my bags in a nearby bush…
Have you ever had one of those moments where suddenly, out of nowhere, you felt really nervous for absolutely no reason? Maybe, like, you’re standing in line at the grocery store, staring at someone’s bananas on the conveyor belt…
…and then you begin creating this catastrophic what-if scenario in your head in which you all of the sudden FREAK OUT and hold up the register with a banana under your shirt, which leads to some kind of hostage situation, which leads to police helicopters and news reporters and swat teams, which leads to your mugshot being flashed on CNN headline news everywhere, which leads to getting hit in the head with one of those bean bag guns, which leads to you going to prison, which leads to having to share a cot with some guy named Dimples who likes to cuddle, which leads to a terrifying stroll down the death row corridor with a potato sack over your head, which leads to being strapped into the electric chair…
…and then the very polite girl at the register timidly says, “your total is $4.99”, sir, and you’re all like,
“PLEASE DON’T SEND ME TO PRISON IT’S JUST A BANANA LOOK!”
And then everybody looks at you with weird looks on their faces, and probably thinking to themselves that that’s exactly where you belong…
That’s called Anxiety. I do that sometimes. Well, sorta..
But it got me to thinking (irony) about how much anxiety (and depression) have helped me write stories. After all, that’s basically what anxiety is, right? I guess it’s all in how you look at it. Are you a “poor, helpless anxiety sufferer”? Or, do you have the gift of being a fucking great fiction writer? When you think about it, having a freak out episode, or an anxiety or panic attack, or a grey matter meltdown, or whatever you wanna call it, is nothing but a series of creatively fabricated events that never happen. It’s fiction. A lot of the time, it’s really good fiction.
So I thought it would be a cool idea to celebrate our varying degrees of mainstream neuroticism by kicking of a BLOG HOP starting HERE this Thursday. Anxiety deserves a laugh, and for that matter, Depression does too. Rather than sit around and cry about it, why not recognize these things as gifts? They are weird gifts, yes: “Gee, thanks for this, um, gift stuff…”
The point I’m trying to make is this: Apply it to Something. Many already do, and just don’t recognize it. Maybe you’ll learn to recognize it beginning today?
The blog-hopping story – similar to the one told at the intro to this post – will mozy on down a long trail of other crazy people – all with the ability to produce great anxiety-inspired fiction. If it works (it’s already working), you’ll get a chance to read a really funny, highly outlandish story, collectively told in very small parts by a lot of really talented writers. You’ll get to visit all off your buds, click the like button, fart, and move on to the next blog in no time flat.
Sound like fun? It will be!
Want to join? You should!
Sign on the dotted line in the comment section!
Oh, and Psst! Ericka Clay is playing along at some point along the story path, so you know it’s gonna be 2 legit to quit. Nothing like a good old fashioned name drop.
At first, I respectfully declined his offer.
I’ve never seen the movies, and I was pretty adamant about remaining a Star Wars virgin [no pun intended]. But in the name of trying out new things, I decided to sit down and finally give it a chance. Continue reading
Twindaddy takes the stage today with a behind the scenes look at some obscure Star Wars facts. I was unaware of all of them. In fact, it doesn’t matter because I’ve never even saw the movies. But, I’ll be watching the series this Wednesday for the first time, and take a Star Wars aptitude test on Thursday. I need to study a bit. I’m not good at studying. Anyways, take it away, dude!
You can scour the internet for hours searching for useless Star Wars facts and never run out of material to read. Star Wars is an uncontrolled locomotive of popularity [Editor’s note: hmm…] and has made creator George Lucas billions upon billions of moneys.
If you search all of these sites, blogs, and message boards looking for “facts you didn’t know” about Star Wars you’ll notice one glaring element missing from every list: none of them are written by anyone from the Star Wars universe; they’re all written by nerds, geeks, and fanboys [Editor’s Note: True, very true].
My name is Twindaddy and I am a stormtrooper in the Imperial Army. There is a portal hidden in my living room closet which transports me between Earth and the Star Wars universe, where I am known as Drun Kenman (clever, ain’t it?). Having unrestricted access to the Star Wars universe means I know things that those nerds, geeks and fanboys couldn’t possibly know. I know these things because I’ve experienced them firsthand, and didn’t see them in a movie or read them in a book.
I have decided to share some of those facts here today, because Chowderhead fucking rocks [Editor’s Note: Recant previous Editor’s Notes]. So your reward for being a loyal reader of Chowderhead is the following list of 10 things you didn’t know about the Star Wars universe. Things that you won’t find on any other blog, message board, or website. Continue reading
If you missed Nicole Marie’s post on Tuesday, I’d recommend going back and giving it a read. It was a highly personal, and very powerful piece of poetry that was well-deserving of the attention that it received.
Of Me speaks about negative self perception of body image from a young woman’s perspective. It carries a universal theme, and it’s a demon that a lot of people have either dealt with in the past, or are still currently battling.
I’ve read a lot of heavy-topic articles around the web, but this was the first time I ever read something that actually moved me to tears.
It was the closing stanza that really poked me:
I am, she says, a well-wrapped box of weeds and good intentions, worn at the seams – no card attached. But she will never learn the weight of her own gravity; she will never see the blue of the sky, if she never raises her eyes to it.
A dude by the name of Rich then followed up with a thoughtful interpretation of those two lines:
It speaks to me because most of us view weeds as bad. but dandelions are beautiful weeds. There are many colorful weeds along highways. and what of the weed itself? It’s just following nature, growing, absorbing water and CO2 like a rose or a holly or mums. So it’s got the same good intentions as those other, more appreciated plants, and it cleans the air for humans, just like the more beautiful flowers. It isn’t always as pretty, but it does the same things for the balance of nature. Good intentions.
The insight that Rich provided is reflective of my own life philosophy.
I think any attempt to bully someone into accepting some version of “ideal” is actually an attempt to mask an insecurity or fear of the aggressor. And by consequence, all it does is create an insecurity in an otherwise secure person. In other words, nobody is born into this world with a negative self-perception; it’s a learned behavior.
That critical voice in your head is not your own. Figure out who’s voice it is and toss it.
Realize that you’re an asset as you are; use your own greatest strengths, and maintain your free-spiritedness and free-thinking mindset. Allow the pockets of peace to grow and expand until they completely fill you. We all have something unique and important to contribute.
Keep admiring your authenticity, and become the eye of the beholder. If you can maintain that mindset, you might not ever have to look into another mirror again. It was a courageous piece that you wrote, Nicole Marie.
Chin square to the ground at all times. Salute.
Tomorrow is the last day to submit your Movember Mustaches before the contest ends. Click here to visit the contest post. I’ll be announcing the winners here on Saturday Morning, and I might even break down and do a VIDEO drawing. Yes! \m/ In the meantime, please donate a couple of bucks to the Movember Cause if you can. Even a small donation would be greatly appreciated.
Click the Banner for More of Nicole Marie
Nicole MarieClick the image to zoom *a normal text format can be viewed at the bottom of the page for easier reading This poem was a hard one for me, but so very, very easy to write. I have questioned my own size and shape since I was thirteen years old. After a school nurse was disappointed with my weigh-in, I went home and buried my face in my mother’s chest and wondered what I was “supposed” to look like. Too short, too tall, too thin, too wide. I drink and I eat sweets, but not a moment goes by without me questioning my shape and my own self worth along with it; these thoughts are a plague to those struggling with self esteem issues, from the time they climb out of bed to the moment they undress at night. And while each day is a struggle, I have managed to find small pockets of peace within myself. We are all different, and we are all beautiful in our own way. Who wants to look like everyone else? What a boring world we would be living in. I try daily to remind myself of all the other things I like about me.To all those others sailing along in my boat: take a deep breath, throw your shoulders back, and make the mirror your new best friend. After all, confidence is sexy.A huge THANK YOU to Adam of Chowderhead for allowing me to cover something I am so very passionate about, on his amazing blog! xoxo, NM Text format
such rough patchwork
on such a young thing,
no glass smooth flesh
just marble valleys
on a pale pink landscape.
those smiling lines on her back
aren’t the wings of a butterfly,
those glowing highways
on her thighs
don’t twist with assurance.
a real life caricature
all lowered brow, all rising forehead,
the living reflection
of a fun house mirror
she looks away as she dresses.
in a wavering cave
the elements get in easily here,
she hides her breath
until the flooding stops.
when the roadway
is littered with flaws,
she only trips
over the rubble.
all is wrapped in silence
when she wakes,
eyes shut tight
no shedding litters
the bedroom floor.
how can she grow
when her sight
is a fogged mirror,
when words fall so hard
from a slapping screen door?
that soft skin,
gathered like wrinkled blankets
beneath each arm,
it is not a sign of prosperity,
she does not raise her chin.
no other is in want
of a hard bruised shook up
stretch of pale and bone
holding some view of the world
in her wide-knuckled grasp.
i am, she says,
a well-wrapped box
of weeds and good intentions,
worn at the seams,
no card attached.
but she will never learn
the weight of her own gravity,
she will never see
the blue of the sky
if she never raises her eyes to it.
I admire the sheer, brutal honesty in this piece. I didn’t ask for anything specific when I originally contacted Nicole Marie, she just did what she does. I was taken aback, and thought it was a beautifully written, and really great piece of reflective poetry – all of it with a glimmer of hope at the end. I’m glad to have had the opportunity to be a mediator. Thanks for your contribution, NM. \m/
For more Nicole Marie, click the banner below
- Chowderhead Interviews Lil’ Ol’ Me (mikecalahan.wordpress.com)
- Why Girls Shouldn’t Let The Thigh Gap Trend Leave Gaps In Their Self Esteem (wibw.com)
- Beyond the Pale (vernacularisms.com)
Last weekend, the eclectic and shadowy author of B.L.O.G., Mike Calahan, was gracious enough to fly out to Chowderhead Ranch for an exclusive one on one interview. Good thing, because an email interview would have been way too cheap and easy.
I’ve been following Mike and his unique brand of humor for the better part of a year, and currently work along side him as a part of the hit collaboration, Long Awkward Pause. He’s a quipy, up-and-coming author with a sharp tongue and a robust head of hair – placing him among the ranks of other stylish hair icons like, Elvis Presley, James Dean, and John Stamos.
Like most artists, Mike is a reserved personality, but his work reveals that there’s a whole lot going on behind the coy grin and stylish, black frame glasses. If you haven’t already done so, I’d highly recommend sampling some of his work while enjoying your morning latte.
A dark roast toast to everyone joining this fine Tuesday morning.
Here’s a look inside:
I can’t even put into words how excited I am to have you here. I’m actually sweating.
When you asked to interview me, I just assumed it was because you were desperate for content and wanted to lose readership quickly.
Fret not. I’m fully capable of losing readership without your help.
Let’s kick it off with a burning question – I’m curious about the name “Calahan.” Is there some sort of religious connotation behind it, like, was Calahan an apostle or something like that?
That’s a question I get asked all the time. Well, after John the Baptist was beheaded, the people looked for a new leader with an undiagnosed mental disorder. Rodrigo the Manic Depressive was really into the idea, but then really against it. Drake the Paranoid was convinced everyone was making fun of him. Finally, they settled on Calahan the Dysthymic. Most people became atheists soon after.
As you can probably tell by the expression on my face, I’m not really a man of faith.
I’m not a man of begorrah, so it works out.
I’ll look that up later. Mike, why do you choose to remain such an enema in the blogging world?
I mean, you seem like a pretty private person. Is this accurate?
A bit. I mean, I readily share my credit card PIN codes and SSN’s with curious strangers, sure. But other things, personal things like, oh, ice cream preference or favorite belt loop are things I like to keep quiet. It makes me seem really mysterious and enigmatic, even though I’m not.
“Enigma” was the word I was searching for.
Let me know if you find it.
How’s the coffee?
It tastes fine. I won’t lie, I’d prefer not to have to share a cup, but the coffee itself is flavorful.
Excellent. Describe your morning routine for us. I’m curious how a day in the life of Calahan begins.
Well, after cursing the morning for arriving, I get up and make breakfast for my wife, pack her lunch, then feed the pets. Once everyone is taken care of, I then sit down for a full day of high-stakes online gambling. Let’s just say that Papa owes a lot of people a lot of money. Actually, I’m pretty boring in real life. Bursts of creativity mixed with anxiety about writing as a career is the best description.
Describe your writing style. Are you a satirist? Is most of your inspiration drawn from real life, or are your writings mainly fictional?
I write the occasional satirical piece, but I wouldn’t call myself a satirist. Honestly, I just write what I think is funny, something that I would want to read. Sometimes it is a situation that comes from real life, like many of my blog posts. Other times, especially with fiction, an idea comes to me while watching a movie or reading or even falling asleep. It might just be a gag that quickly balloons into a full story arch or it’s a character for which I want to find a good narrative. I have one short story that I use to play a prank on the reader, actually. The joke is in upending the reader’s obvious (and very natural) inference of the characters and setting. I thought it was funny, but it’s not published, so what do I know?
Now, do you consider yourself a beatnik?
While I’ve devoured a lot of the Beat writings, I don’t consider myself a Beatnik, no. Then again, I don’t consider myself a No-Goodnik, either. Nor am I a Sputnik. It’s possible I’m a nudnik, but I’m not really sure.
Who’s responsible for assigning the meanings to the acronym, B.L.O.G.?
That responsibility falls on me and me alone. I have gotten suggestions in the past, but it’s always a matter of finding the perfect picture to go along with the acronym. It doesn’t always pan out.
Any particular selection a favorite?
My personal favorite is the couple holding hands as they lie in separate beds. I called that one Biblical Living’s Obligatory Gap.
What was it like playing a supporting role in the hit 90’s movie, The Sandlot?
Oh, man. If I had a nickel for every time I got asked…
Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But seriously, did Bennie really steal home, or was that a camera-tricks thing?
He really did steal home, but there was a camera trick in that he is actually stealing second base. Much like Gary Cooper and The Lou Gehrig Story, that shot had to be reversed to make it appear as though it was home plate. It’s funny how everyone asks me about that movie, but no one ever asks about my roles in Intolerance and Birth of a Nation. Or my years in the old timey minstrel circuit. Or my time as an Andersonville POW in the waning days of the Civil War. Or my years as a double for Amy Carter, during the 1970’s. Or my current work investigating why Marvel’s Agent Coulson looks so much like infamous skyjacker D.B. Cooper and why the government won’t talk about it.
Tell us about your writing process. What goes into writing one of your pieces?
It depends on the piece, but it usually starts with a few notes, then research (when required) and more notes, then rough draft, then feedback from a few selected sets of eyes.
Your writing is flawless. I have to ask, are you paying a third party editor?
I am not paying an editor because my checks tend to bounce. I am currently sleeping with an amazing editor (aka: my wife), so I take advantage of that relationship as often as I can.
Talk about your now defunct teenie-bopper movie critic character, Valerie Atherton.
Valerie was part satire and part social experiment. In response to the seemingly male-dominated, boys’ club world of online movie blogging, I created a character that was opposite in every way possible. Playing to and against stereotypes, the character of Valerie Atherton was young, blond and naïve—but she was (despite an inability to grasp most films [ex: Batman has magic powers, Iron Man has a flashlight heart]) very sincere in her love of movies.
So people weren’t picking up on that fact that it was all a put on, correct?
What were some of the more memorable interactions that Valerie had with her “fans”?
The review that brought the most ire from fanboys was her review of The Watchmen. Specifically, her belief that it was called a graphic novel due to the violence, and that Dr. Manhattan was made of ice. The best response was: “Paint a bullseye on your forehead so that I may barrage you with ‘stupid’ bullets.”
What advice can you offer for other aspiring writers?
If financial stability is a necessity, then don’t become a writer. Hobos have a steadier income than I do. Other than that, my advice is to write what you would want to read. Be your own biggest fan, but also your own worst critic. Don’t let one outweigh the other, though. Maintaining that balance is key.
Anything else you’d like to add, Mike?
I’d like to add my name to a list of successful authors, but that’s more of a lofty goal. The only other thing I could add is 2+2, but the answer I get is generally wrong: Banana.
For more of Mike Calahan, click the banner below.
- LAP Update: Tour Stop Canceled in Kalamazoo, Michigan (longawkwardpause.wordpress.com)
- Because I Haven’t Got the Legs for Dancing (tipsylit.com)
- Mike Callahan: International Man of History – Teaser (thechowderhead.com)
First and foreskin, I want to thank Adam for trusting his blog-space with my words. I’m happier than a stoner at a Funyun factory to be here, and I hope I can do Chowderhead some justice. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or death threats, Adam’s got my email address. Please contact him if you want to direct any hate mail my way.
– Jeff, Content Unrelated
Conversations with Dogs
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
You hear it all the time in the movies. Some stupid little kid crying in his room because he got his ass kicked at school for being a stupid little kid, and his trusty dog is always there to tongue away his stupid little tears.
“If you could talk, you’d know what to say. You know what to do!”
You think so, kid?
You really think Fido would know exactly what to say to make you feel better? I mean, dogs are smart, don’t get me wrong. I’m a dog-person. I have two. But I would never want my four-legged assholes to talk back.
They’ve Seen Too Much.
Plus, they wouldn’t really be able to go to school so it would be like talking to a 5-year-old. They’d have a grasp on basic words and what things are, but it’s not like you could sit there and discuss your theories about LOST or do calculus together.
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
Just for kicks though, I wondered what it would be like if my dogs could actually have conversations with me:
Morning: 7 a.m.
Dog: Hey. Hey. Wake up.
Me: Wh-what time is it?
Dog: It’s time for me to eat, human!
Me: Can you give me 15 minutes?
Dog: Sure, human! I will give you 15 minutes!
TWO MINUTES LATER…
Dog: Hey. HEY! Time to eat! Eat eat eat!
Me: I said 15 minutes.
Dog: Stupid human! I have no concept of time! Let’s go!
Me: *gets out of bed*
Dog: YAY! Food food food food food food food.
“After coming home from a long work day, all I want to do is enjoy some quiet, pants-less beer time. I have responsibilities, though. I knew what I signed up for, but goddamn, you guys…”
Me: *keys jingle while I unlock the door*
Dog: ATTENTION EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE APARTMENT BUILDING! SOMEONE IS AT MY FRONT DOOR. I WILL CONTINUE TO KEEP YOU INFORMED UNTIL THEY GO AWAY. BE ADVISED.
Me: All right, all right! I’m here! I’m home! You can relax now…
Dog: Relax? Relax?! You were gone forever! I thought you were never ever ever going to come back! I almost starved to death! NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN.
Me: Okay, you ready to eat, boy?
Dog: I’m good for now, but thanks!
Me: But I thought you said you were starv–
Dog: I pooped over there, in the corner, and I just ate some of it.
Me: WHAT THE FUCK.
Me: *grabs a paper towel*
Dog: No! I’m saving that for later!
Flying Solo – Door Closed:
“If there’s one thing dogs do really well, it’s interrupting sexytimes, whether it be while flying a solo mission, or spending time with the lady friend. If I don’t find an adequate distraction for the dogs when it’s business time, my testicles turn from a nice, fleshy white to a color that would qualify them as the fourth and fifth members of the Blue Man Group.”
Me: *click … click … click … play … unzip*
Dog: Human? Human, are you in there?
Me: *tug … tug*
Dog: *bangs door*
Dog: HEY WHERE DID YOU GO? ARE YOU IN THERE? COME OUT I MISS YOU!
Flying Solo – Door Open:
Me: *click … click … click … play … unzip*
Dog: *enters room … makes eye contact*
Me: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!
Dog: *comes right back into the room*
Sexytimes – Door Closed:
* Same rules apply as FLYING SOLO (DOOR CLOSED), except minus one porn video and plus one actual woman.
Sexytimes – Door Open:
Me and her: *things start getting hot and heavy*
Dog: *realizes humans aren’t within sight*
Dog: Humans? Where did you guys go?
Me and her: *blocking out distractions*
Dog: *enters room … immediately jumps on the bed*
Dog: OOH! Are you wrestling! I love wrestling! Can I play? I wanna play! Let’s play!
Me and her: *continuing to block distractions*
Dog: Something smells different! Like dog-butt but not from a dog! Is that you, human?
Me: What are you even talking abo—
Dog: *presses cold, wet nose directly into my asscrack
Me: OH MY GOD GET YOUR NOSE OUT OF MY ASS.
Dog: Sorry, human! I couldn’t resist! It smelled so good!
Dogs don’t just ruin private sexytimes. I can’t even take a shit without a furry, four-legged partner.
TAKING A SHIT:
Me: *sits on toilet*
Dog: *enters bathroom*
Me: Think I could have a couple minutes?
Dog: Sure! What are you doing?
Me: I’m … I’m pooping. Go.
Dog: Oh, sweet! I love pooping! How about since you watch me poop when we go outside, you let me watch you poop in here! Deal?
Me: Just … just give me like, two minutes. Please.
Dog: Are you sure I can’t watch?
Dog: *makes eye contact*
Dog: I’m going to watch.
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
Fuck you and your asshole dog, kid. There’s a reason dogs can’t talk. They say enough with their barking and tail-wagging and interrupting of Sexytimes…
Click the banner below for more of Jeff.
– Happy Blogging, Chowderheads \m/
Alright! It’s taken me five grueling months to decide on the first candidate to stand under the hot-lights, but I’m 100% confident that I found the perfect mix of raunch and class to pop the Chowderhead guest blogging cherry. Is that possible to be both raunchy and classy? I guess you’ll just have to judge for yourself.
I’m convinced that Singlegirlie and I were separated at birth, but after that, one of us went on to play rock and roll, drink beer, and start accidental house party fires, and the other went on to debate penis sizes, and lead the single world with a fist in the air and lipstick on her teeth.
Without further ado let’s give a big, warm welcome and rock star salute to the Chelsea Handler of the blogging world, Singlegirlie. Earmuffs.
What up, Chowderheads? Singlegirlie inna house. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, which means I’ve been busy stocking up on vodka and hiding the knives and razor blades. But I did take a moment to create some of my own super cute candy hearts with special messages on them for my loved ones. And I made some for you, too. So suck on these, my sweet babboos, and I hope you enjoy the burn of VD as much as I do.
Happy Valentine’s Day. Now STFU.
There’s always that one annoying a-hole who goes on and on about what a wonderful Valentine’s Day they had with their sweetums. Well, I got news for you. Most people, single or not, hate V-day the way 99% of the planet hates Kanye West. If you’re single, you feel like a loser. If you’re in a relationship, you resent the monumental pressure Valentine’s Day forces upon you to do something romantic. So save the sickeningly sweet details about your ooey gooey day for your cat. Because trust me, no one wants to hear that shit.
You can’t always count on a man, but your dildo will never let you down. I named my dildo Danny after Danny Zuko from Grease. (Note that this was John Travolta back when he was hot and before he became a big, fat, gay alien worshipper and massage boy molester.) Unlike a man, my Danny is super reliable and I can always find him right where I left him – in my bottom dresser drawer concealed by a mountain of Duracell eight-packs. And although he’s unable to thrust himself and has not the same texture as actual man meat, he also doesn’t make a mess inside me or ask for a post-coitus sandwich.
You’re never alone when there’s Craigslist.
Oh, don’t scoff, you know you’ve looked. Hell, even I’ve used Craigslist before. Granted, you may not find your soul mate, but it beats sitting alone on VD diddling yourself whilst watching queens throw tantrums on Project Runway. On Craigslist, you can find anyone into anything you want, so why not take this opportunity to explore your adventurous side? Always dreamed of urinating in a dwarf’s belly button? Craigslist is there. Hermaphrodite-curious? Look no further. This is your time to go hog wild with absolutely no one to judge you! Only downside is the possibility of getting murdered and dismembered – but hey, at least you’re not alone on Valentine’s Day.
Take solace in the fact that your V-day isn’t as bad as Manti Te’o’s.
If anyone’s had a bad time of it lately, it’s Manti Te’o. How would you feel if you discovered that your fake, dead girlfriend is a real, live gay man? Before this scandal broke, I never knew Manti Te’o existed, much less his catfish girlfriend. But this is the catfish to end all catfish – the King God Kamehameha Catfish, if you will. First, the love of his life gets cancer. Then she dies of it. Then he learns that she faked her own death. Then he learns that she faked her whole identity. Then he learns that she’s a HE – a 275-pound, high-talking, Samoan HE in severe denial of his sexuality. Given the choice between his shit and my shit, I’ll take the dildo and a Craiglist random any day.
I’m single, but you’re stuck with that asshole.
It’s no secret that single folk curse their coupled brethren around this time of year, assuming they’ve got it better because they have a sweetheart. But what we singles are wont to forget is that V-day can be a steaming pile of dog shit for couples, too. As we all know, 50% of marriages end in divorce. But that doesn’t mean the 50% that stay together are all in a state of wedded bliss. I guarantee that many of these people regularly fantasize about stabbing their spouse with a steak knife, but they stay together because of the kids or because divorce is expensive or because the death penalty is still legal in many states. So take comfort in the fact that even though you’re lonely, at least you don’t go to bed at night wondering if your penis will be attached in the morning.
I am a single girl dating in Los Angeles. Sometimes. It’s interesting. If you enjoy snark, penis stories and the occasional F-bomb, mosey on over to Single Girl Blogging to partake in the mayhem. Or find me on Twitter @singlegirlie.
I think I need a drink after that. But first, how bout a round of applause?
– Happy Blogging \m/
P.S. Stop by tomorrow for the Vlog. It’s gonna be killer!