Sometimes, I try to do things that the movies tell me will result in a manic love affair that will appear to go awry but will really come around and be awesome forever. And that I will be as hot a Kate Hudson. Let's see where that gets me tonight in...
Best date ever?!
Recently and OKCupid brah from my past exploits showed up again. But only in electronic form. I never actually met the dude. He was funny and charming over the internet, but claimed agoraphobia and said he wasn't "ready" to meet. I KNOW. I know how this sounds. And it sounded weird to me too, what is he doing on OKcupz when he doesn't want to leave the house? I asked him this but I don't remember the answer because it wasn't going to turn into "I am going to get you drunk and talk you into some sex you are going to regret later." Which is how most successful OKcupid dates go, according to anyone who has ever ben on an ok cupid date. Anyway, every so often he messages me on gchat and I indulge him because I am usually not doing anything because it is like, 9pm and I am in bed marathoning Twin Peaks or some shit. I asked him again if he was ever going to stop being a little bitch with his "fear of leaving the house" and come take me on a date. He of course said no, but did say he had a really great date planned for when he was ready to go on dates. He called it things like, "awesome" and "perfect." So I allowed him to go into further detail, and this was the plan he laid out for me:
"It would start with a boozy brunch in Manhattan, because I don't like to get up early. Then, we would walk to Central Park, and probably hang out there and then have a picnic after awhile. After that we would walk over the Manhattan bridge because the light on the water at sunset is amazing. Then we would go to a Rangers game, and dress you up in a jersey and give you foam finger. After that, we would go to Dave and Buster's and get trashed and have more drinks and probably cheeseburgers. This date is very food-centric, but also we would walk a lot so it balances out."
OK. Well, that DOES sound like a pretty awesome date. One that he will never take me on. And I would probably have a lot of fun. Because I try to be open to shit. Like an adult.
But all that loveliness aside, it would not be my perfect date. They share common elements of course (ok mainly food but WHATEV fatties) but MY perfect date would go something like this:
Start with a boozy brunch in Brooklyn because FUCK Manhattan brunch joints that won't let me remove the bread from my plate due to my celiac disease because they, "like, don't do substitutions." despite my entirely cogent and well-formulated argument that removing something is indeed, not a substitution, as I am not asking to replace it with anything. I am fairly confident in asserting that my eggs and hollandaise are not going to suffer for lack of bread beneath them. But fine, I will eat two sides of sausage and a cup of fruit instead of your prixe fixe. Sluts.
After that, we will take a walk down to the waterfront, toward the porta potties, because I will inevitably have to poop after eating sausages. And you will totally understand this because we will have discussed my butthole problems at length and you will have brought immodium and toilet paper in your backpack "just in case."
We will then take some mode of transport into the city to go to the MOMA where you will hold my hand while I silently weep in front of the Cezannes and Picassos and hand me pieces of the toilet paper to dry my tears with. You will find it moving that I am so touched by art and be impressed at my depth of connection to a bowl of fruits.
After the MOMA, we will go see an indie film at the Lincoln Center, preferably something about Bulgarian lesbian nuns, and I will eat almost an entire bag of popcorn in the first 15 minutes, and then have loud rumbly internal farts from the hydrogenated oils. You will pretend not to notice and afterward engage me in a lively discussion about the role of feminism in 1960's Bulgarian society compared to our own.
Finally, we will get drunk on some cheap wine in Union Square, and when i try to talk you into some sex you might regret later, you will politely refuse, but make out with me a little bit, and then walk me home. I will be surprised by a text from you the next morning asking when we can hang out again.
OK CUPID CAN"T MEET THESE STANDARDS. I QUIT.
There are some out there who would say that my standards are a bit too high, that I have an over-inflated sense of awesomeness and I haven't the leverage to demand so much from a dude. And based on what I have been seeing since I have been here, I might be after someone who does not exist on this coast. WHERE ARE ALL THE DUDES THAT LIKE MEATY BITCHES WHO MAKE RACIALLY INSENSITIVE JOKES AND TALK ABOUT POOP OPENLY?
Speaking of meaty, WHERE ALL THE MEAT AT? I hardly every see another fat person in NYC. Extreme thinness is a highly valued commodity here. So obviously I waver between being all, "fuck that noise, I love my body," and "OMG YMCA PASS KALE." More recently I have been of the former attitude, and tonight I went to buy some underwear because A. I needed them and B. I didn't want to do laundry when it was disgusting outside as it is today. So, I go to the VS in SoHo, trying to nab some sturdy cottons at the 5 for 25 rate. Yes, sturdy is the quality I look for in y underwear. I find them all the way in the back, past the transparent thongs made of tiger wool or some shit, and was disappointed to find that all they had out were smalls. I usually wear mediums but I have been having some trouble with the cotton underpants losing their elasticity and falling all the way off my butt while walking, so much that they would be around my knees were the crotch of my pants not there to hold them up. I looked in the drawers they have beneath the panty tables, trying to see if maybe a large was the best option for me, and, what lo! Someone had bought all the larges in that color. So I went to the next drawer. And the next, and the next, and no, for shame, no one had BOUGHT the size L panties. THEY REFUSE TO SELL THEM. Not a single pair of large panties in the store. I was appalled. Victoria's Secret is a national chain, I am supposed to expect the same repetitive nauseating pink interior and the same yoga panties that I always have access to. But no. New York hates fatties and this is proven to me time and time again when I try to buy underwear in a normal fucking size. What about all the skinny bitches that got DAT ASS? Sir Mix A Lot would be hella pissed. And my sisters with hips? What about them? What about all the people who just need to wear a size L panty? Go to the store in Herald Square? Bitch its 19 degrees and snowraining outside. No. I bought size mediums and a head of kale on the way home.
COMING UP:
Bitches need to stop assuming I don't like being a fatty - my gluten free life has nothing to do with the glycemic index.
Why I can't be a slut and smart: Boys are dumb duh
Doing weird shit and calling it art and having everyone believe you.
Best date ever?!
Recently and OKCupid brah from my past exploits showed up again. But only in electronic form. I never actually met the dude. He was funny and charming over the internet, but claimed agoraphobia and said he wasn't "ready" to meet. I KNOW. I know how this sounds. And it sounded weird to me too, what is he doing on OKcupz when he doesn't want to leave the house? I asked him this but I don't remember the answer because it wasn't going to turn into "I am going to get you drunk and talk you into some sex you are going to regret later." Which is how most successful OKcupid dates go, according to anyone who has ever ben on an ok cupid date. Anyway, every so often he messages me on gchat and I indulge him because I am usually not doing anything because it is like, 9pm and I am in bed marathoning Twin Peaks or some shit. I asked him again if he was ever going to stop being a little bitch with his "fear of leaving the house" and come take me on a date. He of course said no, but did say he had a really great date planned for when he was ready to go on dates. He called it things like, "awesome" and "perfect." So I allowed him to go into further detail, and this was the plan he laid out for me:
"It would start with a boozy brunch in Manhattan, because I don't like to get up early. Then, we would walk to Central Park, and probably hang out there and then have a picnic after awhile. After that we would walk over the Manhattan bridge because the light on the water at sunset is amazing. Then we would go to a Rangers game, and dress you up in a jersey and give you foam finger. After that, we would go to Dave and Buster's and get trashed and have more drinks and probably cheeseburgers. This date is very food-centric, but also we would walk a lot so it balances out."
OK. Well, that DOES sound like a pretty awesome date. One that he will never take me on. And I would probably have a lot of fun. Because I try to be open to shit. Like an adult.
But all that loveliness aside, it would not be my perfect date. They share common elements of course (ok mainly food but WHATEV fatties) but MY perfect date would go something like this:
Start with a boozy brunch in Brooklyn because FUCK Manhattan brunch joints that won't let me remove the bread from my plate due to my celiac disease because they, "like, don't do substitutions." despite my entirely cogent and well-formulated argument that removing something is indeed, not a substitution, as I am not asking to replace it with anything. I am fairly confident in asserting that my eggs and hollandaise are not going to suffer for lack of bread beneath them. But fine, I will eat two sides of sausage and a cup of fruit instead of your prixe fixe. Sluts.
After that, we will take a walk down to the waterfront, toward the porta potties, because I will inevitably have to poop after eating sausages. And you will totally understand this because we will have discussed my butthole problems at length and you will have brought immodium and toilet paper in your backpack "just in case."
We will then take some mode of transport into the city to go to the MOMA where you will hold my hand while I silently weep in front of the Cezannes and Picassos and hand me pieces of the toilet paper to dry my tears with. You will find it moving that I am so touched by art and be impressed at my depth of connection to a bowl of fruits.
After the MOMA, we will go see an indie film at the Lincoln Center, preferably something about Bulgarian lesbian nuns, and I will eat almost an entire bag of popcorn in the first 15 minutes, and then have loud rumbly internal farts from the hydrogenated oils. You will pretend not to notice and afterward engage me in a lively discussion about the role of feminism in 1960's Bulgarian society compared to our own.
Finally, we will get drunk on some cheap wine in Union Square, and when i try to talk you into some sex you might regret later, you will politely refuse, but make out with me a little bit, and then walk me home. I will be surprised by a text from you the next morning asking when we can hang out again.
OK CUPID CAN"T MEET THESE STANDARDS. I QUIT.
There are some out there who would say that my standards are a bit too high, that I have an over-inflated sense of awesomeness and I haven't the leverage to demand so much from a dude. And based on what I have been seeing since I have been here, I might be after someone who does not exist on this coast. WHERE ARE ALL THE DUDES THAT LIKE MEATY BITCHES WHO MAKE RACIALLY INSENSITIVE JOKES AND TALK ABOUT POOP OPENLY?
Speaking of meaty, WHERE ALL THE MEAT AT? I hardly every see another fat person in NYC. Extreme thinness is a highly valued commodity here. So obviously I waver between being all, "fuck that noise, I love my body," and "OMG YMCA PASS KALE." More recently I have been of the former attitude, and tonight I went to buy some underwear because A. I needed them and B. I didn't want to do laundry when it was disgusting outside as it is today. So, I go to the VS in SoHo, trying to nab some sturdy cottons at the 5 for 25 rate. Yes, sturdy is the quality I look for in y underwear. I find them all the way in the back, past the transparent thongs made of tiger wool or some shit, and was disappointed to find that all they had out were smalls. I usually wear mediums but I have been having some trouble with the cotton underpants losing their elasticity and falling all the way off my butt while walking, so much that they would be around my knees were the crotch of my pants not there to hold them up. I looked in the drawers they have beneath the panty tables, trying to see if maybe a large was the best option for me, and, what lo! Someone had bought all the larges in that color. So I went to the next drawer. And the next, and the next, and no, for shame, no one had BOUGHT the size L panties. THEY REFUSE TO SELL THEM. Not a single pair of large panties in the store. I was appalled. Victoria's Secret is a national chain, I am supposed to expect the same repetitive nauseating pink interior and the same yoga panties that I always have access to. But no. New York hates fatties and this is proven to me time and time again when I try to buy underwear in a normal fucking size. What about all the skinny bitches that got DAT ASS? Sir Mix A Lot would be hella pissed. And my sisters with hips? What about them? What about all the people who just need to wear a size L panty? Go to the store in Herald Square? Bitch its 19 degrees and snowraining outside. No. I bought size mediums and a head of kale on the way home.
Some weirdly accurate shit about OKCUPID i found on the internet. Minghi totally had to google "erudite." Fitting. Dick.
COMING UP:
Bitches need to stop assuming I don't like being a fatty - my gluten free life has nothing to do with the glycemic index.
Why I can't be a slut and smart: Boys are dumb duh
Doing weird shit and calling it art and having everyone believe you.
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