Lollipop Land

"Natasha, today I need you to go to the bank and deposit that check you got in the mail."

"Okay...is that the drive-thru thing..."

"Yes. The drive-thru."

"Okay..."

Debating on whether or not I should ask just how I go about doing that.

"OH....KAY..."

Stalling and debating are very difficult tasks to do simultaneously.

"OkAY doKAY..."

Stalling and debating and thinking of more ways I can say "ok" are extremely difficult to do simutaneously.

"OkEY doKEY..."

I can do it. I think I can. Wait...who was it who thought they could and then they did...

"OkEYE?..."

The little engine that could, that's who! Okay I can do this.

"Natasha, do you know how to do it?"

"Dad, DUH. Pssh, please. I'm a COLLEGE student now."

"Okay see ya later kiddo."

Kiddo. Psshh. Please. More like adultO. I got this, man. I GOT this. How hard can it be to make a deposit?

So I head on over to the bank. What I think is my bank, anyway. This is what happens when you've never had a debit card in your life. You don't know shit. I pull up to the drive-thru thing. The only slot there is for the debit card. Excuse me, MY debit card. No slot for this check I have to cash. Do I stick the check in there somehow? I examine the slot. No...I don't think so. Maybe I can just put it in that other slot...no then it would just sit there and that wouldn't give me money...at least I don't think that's how I get money...WAIT.

I drive around to the other side of the bank, the place I have always known as That Place I Get Free Lollipops. But now, Lollipop Land has been conquered by College County and after 18 years I finally realize that this isn't a drive-thru for solely lollipops. THIS is where I need to be.

EUREKA!

I'm such a dumbass.

So I drive up and sit. Do I press a button? I look at my options.

CALL.

or...

SEND.

Hmmm...

This is what happens when you've never had a job in your life and therefore have never trekked it to the bank. You don't know shit.

I press CALL.

"I'll be with you in just a minute, ma'am."

I'm such a dumbass!

So I sit some more. Sweating. It happens. Summer...heat...I'm wearing pants and a long-sleeved sweater...

...I know what you're thinking. What a dumbass.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I hope they give me a lollipop...

"Hello, what can I do for you today, ma'am?"

Hear that, Pops? I'm a MA'AM now. No kiddo, MA'AM. M-A-A-M.

"Yes, I'd like to make a deposit."

Ooh, I sound so professional!

"Okay."

Okay? What does that even mean! "Okay?" That's it? I'm screwed. What was I thinking, coming here to this foreign land I once knew as a child and expecting them to remember me and help me and give me free candy and now I'm stuck here and there's no escape WAIT.

There was something said...something he told me...before I embarked on this dangerous adventure, the wise man told me I MUST remember one thing...don't forget he said...don't forget...

"The check."

Ah! Yes! The check, of course!

...dumbass.

I put the check in the Magic Glass and press, "SEND."

And then I wait.

And wait.

I'm still waiting.

Patience is the dumbest virtue ever.

Someone told me it's not even a virtue; it's just commonly mistaken for one.

"Hello, how can I help you today?"

What is this, some sort of spell? Have I been sent back into time somehow? They can't fool me!

"Uh yeah I just sent a check up...I'm making a deposit into my account."

Account. Look at me using The Bank Lingo and all. I'm such a natural.

"Miss Ferrier, I'm sending you a deposit slip you'll need to fill out for me, please."

The wise old man told me something about a deposit slip...what was it...he handed it to me, I know...I remember the look in his eyes when he gave it to me...but what was it he said...

"Take this to them."

Oh how could I forget!

...cause I'm a dumbass.

I take out the slip she sent me and send the original back up. I wonder if by doing this I just made her doubt her sanity, knowing the slip she sent me was much different than the one she got back, or wondering how the hell I filled that thing out so fuckin' fast.

Waiting. Again. I've waited like 3 times in the past 10 minutes that's got to be a record.

Eight minutes later.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Ferrier?"

"Nope! That's it!"

Why did she ask me that? Is there something I've forgotten? Do people usually do more when they come to these places? Did the wise man leave the most important piece of advice out just to test my instincts? Did WAIT.

Am I supposed to leave now?

Debating...debating...debating...my debate with myself is soon interrupted.

"Would you like me to send you a receipt of your deposit, Miss Ferrier."

"Yes! Yes, that is exactly what I was waiting for! Sorry, thought I mentioned it earlier!"

...dumbass dumbass dumbass.

I get the receipt. I drive away, and as I'm driving off into the sunset, I realize I forgot one thing: THE LOLLIPOP.

...DUMB. ASS.

Gum, Interrupted

By the way, I think I'm going crazy.

And no, I'm not going crazy by thinking I'm going crazy.

But knowing I'm going crazy is driving me mad.

So I'm just sitting in my car.

This may be why I'm going insane. I spend a questionable amount of hours in a single leather seat that according to my driver's school teacher is way, way, WAY too close to my steering wheel. Look lady, I don't want your opinion. I was forced to come here just as you're forced to frown when frat boy laughs about going 77 in an elementary school zone when you know you want to laugh because everyone else in this little room is laughing because apparently potentially running over 5-year-olds with your Chevy pick-up is just fucking hilarious and if you touch my steering wheel again I will be forced to honk its horn 56 times using your head.

Back to me in my car. Sitting there. Wanting a piece of gum.

This is another reason as to why I am going insane. I always WANT something. I want a Red Bull, I want coffee, I want 12 Splenda to put in my coffee, I want that man to spill coffee on himself because that would be funny, see there I go again I WANT to laugh so I WANT that man to burn his pecks with the South American blend, now that I'm thinking of South America I want some blow and now that I want some blow I want a nose bleed and now that I want a nose bleed I want to meet Robert Downey Jr. and maybe star in the Iron Man sequel with him...I'm like the mouse who got given a cookie. If you give Natasha 12 Splenda, she's gonna want Robert Downey Jr....it's ridiculous. I. AM. MY. OWN. ENEMY.

See? I don't even particularly like Robert Downey, Jr., and yet I just went on and on about him as if I'm infatuated with him. I think he seems like a cocky asshole and I hated Less Than Zero and he sucked on Saturday Night Live the ONE season he was on it and what 40-year-old man still goes by Junior?

And, for once, I actually have gum, and not just any gum. I now know exactly what Fred Schneider meant by Good Stuff; he meant...Passionberry Twist. I mean this gum is---

Gum. Gum. Gum...there's some song about gum that I used to sing about when I was little. Bazooka Zooka Bubble Gum? No, even earlier than those years. Wait, why am I trying to think of a song with gum in it? What made me think of that? Gum. Gum. Gum...

And then I see, for once, I actually have gum! Oh, and not just ANY gum. Because of this gum I know now what Fred Schneid---

Wait. Have I already said this or am I having severe deja vu? Someone tell me! But wait, no one can tell me because this is blogspot, not a chatroom! FUCK! I'm going crazy! FUCK! I'm going crazy! FUCK! I'm becoming redundant! It's the fear of all writers! Wait...I can probably just go back...and re-read...what I wrote...to see if...yes...yes, I am an idiot.

See. Exhibit A, mother fuckers. Insanity In Action.

So I pull out a piece of gum, but with it, another piece comes flying out of the box.

Box? Container? Package? Holder? Coozie? What the hell do you call the thing that gum is in? Box makes me think of a giant cardboard box filled with millions of those itsy bitsy chewing rectangles we all just can't get enough of; container makes me think of tupperware which makes me think of women in aprons smiling and holding up pies; package makes me think of...just nevermind if you're not thinking what I'm thinking then praise you you're a saint blah blah blee blah you're never gonna get laid; holder makes me think of Molder and I don't think David Duchovny has anything to do with Trident; coozie is just flat-out wrong I just wanted to use that word because it's awesome.

So this other piece flies out, and for a split second I think nothing of it. The two wrappers just got stuck somehow and it unlatched when I took it out and went plunging into my lap. I take the original piece out of its wrapper, pop it into my yapper, pick up the other piece, and put it back in the...pouch? And THIS is the precise moment I knew a lobotomy was in order:

Wait, what if that piece of gum flew out on purpose? What if it really, really wanted to be chewed so it tried to get my attention because it respects me and wants me to enjoy him because he knows that's his purpose in life? And now that I've put him back, what if all the other pieces of gum are laughing and making fun of him and saying, "Told ya so! Told ya so! She doesn't want you nanny nanny boo boo!" And poor little Hank is just sitting there crying his aspartame out and here I am, chewing the piece that knew he was going to be chewed. The cocky one of the bunch. The one that egged poor little Hank on in the first place, saying, "Natasha doesn't chew puny pieces like you, Natasha wants a big, strong piece of gum that will make her happy while also strengthening her teeth and you could never be a piece of gum like THAT." And poor little Hanky Poo was just trying to prove himself to me, and I rejected him without even giving him a fair chance. And now Sleez Ball is in my mouth livin' the good life and BLAH!

This is the moment my insane thoughts became my insane actions, making the insanity a reality. I spit out the piece of gum I was chewing, debated on giving it the finger, frowned at it instead while thrusting my head forward at the same time, rolled up my window out of anger, rolled it back down so I could instead rub it in his face, grabbed my Hanky sweetheart, and put him in my mouth. (this is gum we're talking about, you perv heads) I then felt guilt-free, regret-free, and cavity-free.

And that, my friends, is the end of my story.

Cuckabeara! That's the song! Cuckabeara sits in the old gum tree...la la la la la insaniTY...laugh. Cuckabeara laugh. Cuckabeara this song is creePY. HAHAHAHA!

Candy Borrowing

Halloween is by far the best holiday in the whole entire universe. If Mars has a holiday, I'm tellin ya, Halloween is IT.

Christmas is great, but with that also comes that unexplainable depression, the "I'M SO HAPPY I'M SAD WAHHH ...SANTA ONLY COMES WHEN I'M UNCONSCIOUS THAT'S CREEPY AS FUCK WAHHH...SANTA ISN'T REAL AND MY PARENTS ARE LIARS WAHHH..." Then there's Easter, which is just way too random for any other planet to pick up. Eggs? I mean, come on. How would you make Easter seem exciting to a Martian?

"We take...eggs...I don't just mean one egg, I mean eggs upon eggs upon EGGS...and we paint them colors that gay men like to wear, and then we place them in bushes...set the kids free...and they all look for the eggs. Not only that, but we tell them a giant mutated bunny stole the eggs, but then changed his mind and threw them all over our yard."

Screw that. The midgets get Saint Patrick's Day, the handicapped get Veteran's Day, and the single people finally get to hang themselves on Valentine's Day. It's a perfect structure we've got going here on Earth. And for me? And the martians? HALLOWEEN, BABY.

That's right; I'm already thinking about it. What to be, what to be...how many half-naked girls will I see, will I see...the possibilities are endless, and it's driving me mad. It's too much pressure is what it is. I have to be something creative and it has to be original and I want it to be funny but I don't want to look ugly because I still want guys to want to come over to me and so it has to be a sexy funny but I don't want to look like a slut because I don't want guys to want to cum on to me and so now I'm back to being just funny but oh wait the entire male species collaborated and took all the good ones now look I'm a witch for the fifth fucking time.

Really, though, I'm just pissed at myself. My entire high school career was filled with bad Halloween mishaps and I'm still not over it.

Freshmen year
My friend has a Halloween party, so, of course, I get all decked out. I got the black tights, the black heels, the black gloves, the red dress with the black polka dots; I got the wings, and I even got the antenna. THE MOTHER FUCKIN ANTENNA, BITCH. And, as you can imagine, getting this decked out takes a long time, so I'm the last one to arrive.

"Oh, hello, Natasha! HA! Don't you look adorable! Everyone's out back by the fire."

So I strut on out there with a swagger only a ladybug could pull off, and I can't see the 20-something people out there in the dark, just their shadows, so I'm smiling, I'm waving, and you know what the first thing I hear is? Was it a 'Hello Natasha!' Was it a "You have the best costume here, Natasha!' Was it a "FoxAY LaDAY: Natasha!" No.

"Guys look! Natasha wore a costume!"

Need I go on.

Sophomore year
I was 16, the age I had been waiting for all my life as far as Halloween-costumes go. Scarlet O'Hara was 16 when she wore her famous green and white dress, and now I was going to. My mother sewed the whole thing herself, created it right from scratch, and it was beautiful. I get in it, I'm feelin good, stoked out of my mind, I head on out to borrow some candy from the neighbors. (When you're way too old to be trick-or-treating, you call it Candy Borrowing.) I walk up to the door, say my line, and I briefly catch the lady glance at my chest. I'm thinking, is she trying to tell what age I am? Does she think I'm too old to borrow her candy? Then I look down. And hey! It's my bra! Right there! Hello, cleavage! AWESOME. This happens more than once. No matter how many times I pulled it up, it kept falling down. Scarlett O'Hara? More like Scarlet O'Whora. (Yes, I know, my wit leaves you speechless.)

Junior year
I was a bumblebee. I just realized I have a thing for bugs. Don't really know what that's about. Anyway, we have Costume Day at school, and I had been buying little things all throughout the summer, bumblebee trinkets you could call them, to make my costume complete. I may not look totally awesome, but I felt proud. No WAY were there going to be any bumblebees walking the halls but me.

Costume Day comes.

SEVEN OTHER FUCKING BUMBLEBEES.

End of story.

Senior Year
It started with a minor mishap of the black hair dye I had sprayed on my head smudging all across my entire face and not coming off for the rest of the night. I looked more like Oliver Twist then Betty Boop. But that was just the pre-show. I then spent 2 hours looking for a house where "THE" Halloween party was going on.

"Hey, can you give me directions?"

"I'M SORRY I CAN'T HEAR YOU THERE ARE JUST SOOOO MANY PEOPLE HERE IT'S INSANE!"

"Hey, we're lost, can you help?"

"NO SORRY I'M GOIN ON A BEER RUN WE'VE ALREADY GONE THROUGH EIGHT KEGS!"

"Give me the fucking directions to this party."

"Take a left on Crestview and go up the hill and it's on your right."

"Oh my god THANK YOU."

So we get there, and there's a gate. And you need a code. No one mentioned a code. Wouldn't someone have mentioned a code? Isn't a code a kind of crucial part to getting to the house? Then, we see a car come out of the gate from the other side. Then another. And another. And another. And after about 40 fucking cars leave, 3 cop cars pull in. And then we leave. And we go home. And I wash my face because I now look more like a black man than Oliver Twist.

That's why this Halloween better be the shit. Or I'll have to resort to eggs.

The Game of Blab

Can I be honest? Can this be like a 4th grade sleepover? You know, where we discuss for an hour whether it's "safe" or not to play Truth or Dare, (oh, you don't even know the dangers that come with playing Truth or Dare) and then once the "black sheep" of the ten-year-olds finally bullies the other lambchops into playing (I was always that bad ass. Yes, I'm bragging. 2000 was a good year for me.), then no one chooses Dare. (except me, of course, the rebel of the tattoo-choker fashionistas). I mean, no one. And they always pretend they're actually contemplating choosing Dare, sitting there for ten minutes,

"Should I choose Dare?"

"YES!"

"Well, what are you going to Dare me?"

"You can't know! That's the point of Dare, STUPID."

"Don't call me Stupid!"

"If you choose Dare then I won't call you Stupid."

"Well I wassssss gonna choose Dare, but now that you called me Stupid I'm not going to. I choose TRUTH."

"Stupid."

So that's what this is going to be like. It's going to be Truth, where, if you haven't figured it out already, means I will be telling the Truth, since this is the game of Truth. Here, you ask me:

"Are you excited about college?"

And here's my answer:

"No."

There. That's it. That's the truth. Now, we'll play the game of Blab, where I will now blab on and on about why I'm a little pussy.

It's been too built up! I mean, for crying out loud how many MORE times can I be told that college is the best, most amazing, most kick-ass years of my LIFE? Is that even what I want? HELL NO! I can't have half of the 4 years that will be the best years of my life to occur before I even turn 21! I mean good god! I'll have 70 more years to live after that! That's 70 years of never living up to those 4 years I got wasted and hit on by beer-bellied gonads every night? Living up to those 4 years I washed my own clothes and cleaned my own dishes? Living up to those 4 years I wasn't allowed to sleep in the nude because there was a girl I barely knew sleeping beside me? WHAT THE HELL, MAN. If those 4 years are the best of my life then what the hell will the years be like after that? My expectations have been set way too high way too early, and now I'm just way too nervous.

I'm looking forward to it a lot. Like flashing frat boys my middle finger and my middle finger only. Convincing all of my roommates that I'm mentally ill so they all move out. Stealing their drinks from the fridge then accusing them of stealing mine. Consuming deadly amounts of caffeine without being told I'm consuming deadly amounts of caffeine. (Death By Red Bull? I plan to test it.) Parties. Professors. (Professors at parties? Hmmm...)

Look, believe me, I'm stoked. Don't mistake me for, I don't know, some kind of antisocial freakazoid. But who the hell is going to introduce themselves to a girl who uses the word "freakazoid" in the first place? The only reason I got the heebie jeebies in the first place is because of Orientation. Yeah, I went, and yeah, what kind of expectations did I have? HIGH ONES, THAT'S WHAT KIND. And then what happens?

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"Hey. I'm bi. Don't worry though, I won't hit on you."

Am I supposed to feel relieved or offended here?

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"Oh, no need to introduce yourself. I'm just going here until my boyfriend moves to LA and pays for my plane ticket to get me out of this fuckhole."

Fuckhole. New word...

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"I'm Betsy."

"Betsy! Cool! You know, you're the first person who's told me their---"

"My friend's waiting for me. Bye."

What a fuckhole.

These people are RUDE. And AWKWARD. And STUPID. And why the hell won't they be my friend? I'm cool! I'm hip! I sound like a mother with a teenage daughter! Shit. I'm really not even worried, actually. I just know I'm too cool for anyone on this planet and therefore will have to settle for those who wish they were me. Yeah. That's it. Just toooooo cooool for schoooool...and for friendsssss...and for any type of social interactionnnnn...I suck at this Truth stuff anyway. Game over.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do?

A million people said it. A million people sang it. Breaking up is what? Hard to do.

Bull. SHIT!

Little Eva obviously had never had a boyfriend. At least not one in high school. Here's how the typical break-up goes for the teenage female and teenage male:

"Fuck you."

"NO, FUCK YOU!"

Ahem. Does that seem hard, Carpenters? Maybe it's just me, but I found that to appear incredibly easy. I've been putting someone's needs before my own while also soothing the rug burns on my knees for the past 2 years, and all I had to do this entire time to bring it to a halt was to say two words? Fuck? You? That's it? If only I had known that from the beginning!

Instead of the:

"I'm sorry, I just don't want a boyfriend anymore. It's been a really long time since I've been single and I just want to feel what it's like again; I can't deal with commitment. I don't know how; I'm just not ready for it yet."

A.K.A. "I'm a big slut and one penis just doesn't satisfy me. I need them all!"

Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"

Instead of the:

"I've met someone else. I'm sorry. I do love you, and I've always loved you, but with this other person...it's more than love, it's fate. It's a connection me and you will never have. We'll be happy together, but something will always be missing. I'm sorry, you will find your soul mate one day, too."

A.K.A. "I'm not only a dick for breaking up with you and being honest about it, I'm also a dick for going on and on and on about some other chick who I'll have in the sack by tomorrow."

Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"

The best part about the "fuck you" approach is that you can always add some personal flair to it to make it you own.

Examples:

1. Fuck you fucker.
2. Fuck you wait I won't be doing that anymore.
3. Fuck you one last time? Please?
4. Fuck you and your dad! Wait...that came out wrong...I'm just really angry right now...fuck.
5. Fuck who? YOU.

And, from my own personal experience,

"Fuck you and your movies."

Ahhh. Classic. For any of you wondering, no, I did not fuck my movies. I watched my movies. They were wonderful. And, thanks to me, still virgins.

Breaking up really isn't that hard to do. It's us teenagers, man. We didn't learn how to call it quits in Anatomy class, all we learned to do was check our breasts for giant lumps. To us, all it takes is an exclamation of profanity, or you could just stop answering the bitch's phone calls, or name your balls Louis and Clark and go explore a jungle or two. Everyone's break-up stories seem to be exactly the same. And the ones who have been together forever are always asked the same things.

"How long have you been together?"

A.K.A. Have you done it yet?

"Wow, you're been together a long time!"

A.K.A. Which only means they're gonna break up sooner!

"Oh, you wanna marry each other?"

"FUCK YOU."

"Oh, I'm not invited to the wedding?"

"FUCK YOU."

"Oh, you want me to leave?"

"YEAH WELL FUCK YOU."

The "F-you" approach doesn't work in all situations kiddoes, so don't try this at home. Only try it if you've been stuck with the same dude/chick for the past few months/years and you don't know how the hell to end it. You're happy, but you could be happier. You're IN love, but you don't LOVE them. Shit, or is it the other way around? I just want to know when exactly we all start maturing. I mean at what age will, "It's not you, it's me" be unacceptable? Or is that still being used? Is there some 57-year-old knitting in a corn field as her husband plows shit or whatever it is old people are doin' these days, and she's turning to him and saying, "FUCK YOU!" and then walking out on him? Poor man. Poor woman. Who wants to knit in this heat? I don't think that's how break-up's should be when we're older. We want the truth. We want the clean mouths. We want the word "fuck" to be associated with the beginning of a relationship, not the end. I JUST NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE. I need to know if break-up's stay the same. And if that's what the song means, "breaking up is hard to do," then how much harder do they get? Sure, they're easy now, but they're also annoying as hell and don't really resolve anything except letting you know all those things you doubted doing in the first place should have never been done. Little fuckhead. In my opinion, it doesn't matter how you go about doing it. It's about the big picture, the end. You want the end and as long as you reach it who the hell cares what train you took to get to it. As long as you get your movies back.

FanDON'Tgo

I don't understand the traditional "first dates." Not only do I not understand them, I think they are stupid. Not only do I think they are stupid, but I plan to never take part in them unless I want my future relationship with said person to be doomed for life. For instance, if I met a guy who I didn't particularly like, and he asked me out on a date, and I couldn't say no because another guy I particularly did like was standing two feet away and therefore could hear me and Lame-O's conversation, I would have to say yes, but after saying yes, I would say something like, "How about bowling?"

Bowling

So you've both decided to go bowling. Bowling is fun, right? You toss a ball into some pins while at the same time giving your date a good look at your ass. Seems too good to be true. OH, BUT WAIT! Have you forgotten why people go on dates? To get to know each other, that's why. To scope someone out to see if you like them enough to ask them out again. So what happens after you bowl? You walk back, and as you're sitting down, what does your date do? HE gets up to bowl. And he does. And then after he bowls, what do you do? YOU get up to bowl, while he's what? WHILE HE'S TAKING A SEAT. And once you've taken another turn, does he stay seated? Oh no. There he goes again, getting up to bowl. And this happens how many times? TEN! Ten out of how many? TEN! And what if you play two games? THAT'S TWENTY TIMES! Twenty times of up/down, up/down, hey/bye, strike?/yep!, how/are/you?/good!. I mean, seriously? I haven't even mentioned the awkwardness of you going up to bowl and bowling straight into the gutter. The gutter part isn't awkward; it happens to the best of us, but after that? After you deemed that ball one of the gutter? You have to turn around, make some kind of "oh well" gesture to your date, or laugh at yourself when really you want to cry, or pretend it never happened and walk back, but then you have 20-something feet to walk back! You just made an ass of yourself and then not only do you have to immediately face your date, you have to walk...and walk...and walk...and walk back towards him. Do you make eye contact the whole time you're walking back? Do you make it once then look down? Do you look him in the eye then pretend like you saw something really interesting to the left, then when he turns to look at what you're looking at, you run to your seat to end the torture faster? Or do you do something sexual, like stare him in the eye and lick your lips so he forgets all about the gutter ball? Then maybe he'll forget about bowling entirely and you can get the hell outta there. I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO IN THAT SITUATION! THAT'S WHY I'M TELLING YOU: BOWLING IS A BAD, BAD, BAD FIRST DATE.

The Movies

Ahhh, yet another outing that somehow made it to be prime first date rib and I don't know how the hell it did. The movies. I won't even mention the fact that movies cost more than if I had bought the date to go to the movies with. Shit, I did just mention it, didn't I? Well, might as well mention it again! MOVIES ARE EXPENSIVE AS FUCK WE NEED TO ORGANIZE A SIT-IN AND DO IT PRONTO FUCK THE CINEMA AND ITS KERNEL-COVERED FLOORS. So you pay for a movie, you walk in, and he asks you if you want popcorn. And you think, "Oh, how nice, he's willing to pay for my popcorn." NO, BITCH, NOT NICE. The only reason he's offering is because he wants popcorn, which you realize once you decline and he still gets in the popcorn line, which, in the first date world, is more commonly known as the Don't You Dare Expect Me To Kiss You When This Night Is Over When You Have A Large Bag of Buttery Kernels All In Between Your Teeth Ew Ew Ew line. So you walk into the movie, it's dark, it's dank, this place is actually a good first date location if your date is hard on the eyes, but I'm not taking the uglies into consideration at this moment. You sit down, and you think of something witty. Something hilarious, something catchy and clever, something that will make your date realize you're the only girl for him. You're the one. It's fate. It's destiny. It's the moment to make him fall head over heels in love with you. You turn to him,

"Hey, haha, have you ever thought---"

"Look, the previews are starting!"

You slink back into your seat. That mother fucker loves previews. Why didn't you take that into consideration BEFORE you thought of the seal-dealer? But wait, you recognize the actor in the preview! You used to love him as a kid! You turn to your date,

"Hey, that's James What's-His-Name! I used to---"

"Wait, hold on, I really want to see this movie!"

He leans into the screen. Then some hot-lookin-babe in a bikini comes on and he's forgotten all about you. And there you are, self-conscious, insecure, and regretting that you didn't make the sucker buy you some damn popcorn. Is your date the kind who talks during the whole movie or only does if you do, or does he not talk and despises when anyone mutters a single word, or does he want to talk but will only do so once you start talking and you're waiting to talk until he talks and so now the fuck what? You're fucked, that's what. And as soon as the thought of "I'm fucked" punches you in the face, the movie starts, and what do you and your date do for the next 2 hours? You sit. In silence. Staring. Going to the Movies can be summarized into the 4 S's. SIT. SILENT. STARE. SUCK. Well guess what, date number one? I hated the curtain you were hidden behind in the first place, and now you haven't spoken to me the past hour and a half that I've been talking to myself, and you see these past events as stepping stones to you giving me the twizzlers you should've bought me in the first place all over my neck? NO, WARREN BEATTY WANNABE! Are you going to urinate in the theatre or is your zipper starring in the next Hitchcock film? NO, ROB LOWE STALKER! Are we searching for props that could have made it into the movie? NO, SO STOP GRABBING MINE YOU HUGH JACKMAN JACK-OFFER! There are many dark places that don't require physical deeds to be done, such as: my grandma's closet, the doghouse in my backyard, and behind those bushes over there. NO. NO. NO. If that's what you wanted right from the get-go, you shouldn't of bought popcorn, you should've bought a date. Yes, I do realize that I mention prostitutes quite often in my writing. It's not that I'm obsessed; they're just so damn convenient. Once you leave the movie, all you talk about is THE movie. As if two hours about one movie wasn't enough, now I'm gonna let that same movie take up another 2 hours of my mortal life and then days from now continue to do so whenever someone brings up the film. Has it ever hit you why it's called a CIN-E-MA? CIN, as in sin? As in Enid Strict would be all up in that bizz-nazz whether she thought it was special or not. As in GOING TO THE MOVIES ON A FIRST DATE IS HELL.

Coffee

Cliche, I know. But what many people don't know is how this question should be asked.

"Wanna grab a cup of joe?"

DECLINE. What decade was it cool in to say a man's name instead of "coffee?" None. No decade. Meaning it was never cool. Meaning either this guy is so insecure he tries to hold on to the last of the trends that just never quite made it, or hes cocky enough to try to start his own retarded trends and his guinea pigs in this experiment are potential-dates. Stay away from the Average-Joe.

"Hey I was thinkin' me and you could sit down, grab some coffee, talk for a bit, catch up, you tell me about yourself, I'll tell you about myself, but mostly just enjoy some espresso."

DECLINE. If using the term "espresso" didn't immediately channel your inner gaydar, you need to avoid men who talk too much. I mean, that's what? 33 words? All to ask you to get coffee with him? Imagine how much he's gonna talk once you actually obtain the coffee! And you KNOW a guy like this is gonna be a foamster. "Extra foam, please." God, that's embarrassing. Tell him to write you his autobiography and bring it on the date. That'll save some time. Or you could just spill your coffee all over it, piss him off, then he'll leave, and if he doesn't, you can still leave because you''ll then spill his coffee all over the white blouse you purposefully wore on this date in hopes of a clumsy waiter, until you decided to take matters into your own hands.

"Hey, movies suck. So does bowling. Wanna just, like, go get some coffee?"

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE.

Then you can talk, and laugh, and get free refills, then get all hyper and see if he still likes you when you're fucked up on Java, which he will, because he's more fucked up on Java then you are and he's still goin' at it, and pretty soon the two of you will be goin' at it together because this brown-bean-bloke is the one and you know it.

But come on. As if that'll ever happen. Chances are you'll go get the coffee with the man who makes you laugh and then it turns out you make him laugh more than he makes you laugh and you're the funny one in this situation and you didn't want to be the funny one you wanted HIM to be the funny one and now you're screwed and your coffee burnt your tongue and THIS, my friends, is why I don't go on dates.

Unconditional Love In A Diaper

I am sorry to say that I do not possess the common "obsession" with the round balls of blubber you most often find disguised behind a pair of overalls. I'm talkin' babies here, people. Babies. Now, most girls my age tend to talk about these little morsels of lard not only every minute, but also as if they are the solution to happiness. Are you depressed? HAVE A BABY! Are you a closet homosexual? HAVE A BABY! Are you shooting up Monday through Sunday? HAVE A BABY!

"Oh, I can't wait till I have a baby!"
14-year-old Samantha

"Oh, I wish I could have a baby right now!"
15-year-old Kelly

"I do have a baby!"
16-year-old Penelope

"Well I have TWO babies so suck it!"
17-year-old Bonnie

"Your BABY will suck it!"
Penelope

"That's BABIES you bitch!"
Bonnie, again

"Well your son's a BASTARD!"
Penelope, makin it personal

"Fuck you, scabby nips!"
Bonnie, being a hypocrite

The whole baby-infatuation baffles me. I get women who grow up, get married, and want to have a baby. I mean what the hell else is there to do? A baby isn't like a pet, man. I mean yeah, it drools and shits and you punish it by securing it to one single location in the entire house, such as a corner, (in my household we call it "the naughty corner") (it's not for me) (I've never been to "the naughty corner") (or any corner for that matter), but a baby is for LIFE. There's no redo's with a baby. No returns, either. You also can't trade your baby with other mom's babies in the hospital, though I think that would solve many problems.

"Look, honey, she has my mother's eyes."

"Ha...you mean MY mother's eyes."

"No, your mother is an evil, conniving bitch and my baby is none of those things."

"Let's not argue over who's mother is a bigger bitch; this is about our new daughter."

"Oh, so you think my mother's a bitch, do you?"

"That's it, NURSE!"

"Yes?"

"We're arguing a lot over our baby's features."

"Oh, well let me take care of that."

DING DING DING!

"TRADE-OFF!"

"Now just give me that one and I'll give you this one."

"Oh, look, honey! See that man over there in the waiting room? Our new daughter has his same uni brow!"

"Oh, honey, you're exactly right!"

I think the reason the whole "babies are god, god is babies" or however you wanna phrase that, ordeal bothers me so much is because I know I would be a terrible mother. But I wouldn't think that. I would do things thinking I was doing what a mother should do when really every other mother on the planet and Planet X (whatever happened to that?) would look down on me for doing. Because just like every baby looks like a old man's wrinkly ass, every mother has to raise her child in the same way. That's why there are BOOKS on "raising you kid," you know, since it shouldn't come naturally or anything, since it's not nature taking its course, since some old broad sat down and decided that not one other woman knows that it's good to communicate with your adolescent, since a mother's instinct is really just to ignore the thing and leave it in the kitchen somewhere. Since, as a mother, I have not already assumed that I "shouldn't feed young children tiny plastic toys" because it never occurred to me that "babies can choke on tiny plastic toys" since, as a new mother, I have filled my house with "tiny plastic toys" just so I can prove how good of a mother I am by putting these "tiny plastic toys" away and doing so when other people can see me doing so. I hope you're following. I just know I would be the weirdo mother who lets her kids watch R-rated movies and thinks a "balanced meal" is food on a scale, and then neighbors would think I'm a drug dealer because my kids eat french fries on a scale and they'd think I was hiding druggies in their huggies or some weird shit cause neighbors are just stalkers with a shorter distance to stalk and so then they'd call the cops and the cops would walk in and we'd all be naked because I think it's incredibly unnecessary for children to wear clothes and I wouldn't want to be the outcast and then the cops would ask me why no one has clothes on and then I'd say my kids' skin is just so soft they can't wear clothes and I'd stroke their skin but since I'd be naked as well it'd look like incest pedophilia and I'd be taken to jail and what kind of mother could I be there? EXACTLY.

It's not that I hate babies; believe me, there is something fiercely appealing about having someone who will always love and adore you for the rest of your life even when your husband's left you and you think power walking is exercise. That's beautiful. It's unconditional love in a diaper. But now is not the time girls my age are supposed to be looking forward to that. I mean talk about the stupidest mothers in the world.

"So I was like teaching my babAY to grind and like my best friend PollAY was like, 'oh my god megan you cannot teach your babAY to grind that's just like wrong' and I'm like 'every girl needs to know how to grind PollAY' and she's like, 'but your babAY is only two' and I'm like, 'PollAY, it's never too early to start teaching your girl to give a guy a boner' and she's like, 'oh my god megan you are SO right!' and I'm like, 'duh, I'm a MOM now, hello?" and she's like, 'i am just so silLAY i want a babAY' and I'm like, 'it's really not that hard to like get one' and she's like, 'you're right i totally should get one' and then we were just teaching my babAY to grind but then I left her with my mom so I could go to the club and do some grinding myself.'

-just so you know, I didn't just make that up. Not in the least bit

All I know is that if I were an 18-year-old guy, I'd be looking for junk in the trunk, not a mummy with a tummy. But maybe that's just me.