Things I'm Terrible At: Using Exclamation Points Prudently

I wore this perfume in 6th grade!

As I reviewed the past two dozen texts I've sent him, I noticed a disturbing trend: I use exclamation points constantly.

• "Sure, I love that band!"
• "Haha! Totally!"
• "Ok! Call me later!"
• "Yeah, Saturday night sounds great!"
• "The Hurt Locker was HILARIOUS!"

See what I mean? It's out of control. I'm basically a dog wagging my tail and humping his leg via his inbox. I'm not getting paid by how many times I can type an exclamation point but I sure act like I do. What's wrong with me? Clearly, I'm missing the part of my brain that harnesses enthusiasm when communicating with a man that I like. (For the record, it took all of my effort to not use any exclamation points in this paragraph. Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.)

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I Love Love Love His Dimples!

I've never thought of myself as a "dimple woman," but something about this guy's dimples is turning my head so fast, I'm gettin' whiplash up in herre. When he flashes a smile, it's like he has two spotlights on either side illuminating it. His face comes with its own set of single quotation marks! I'm mesmerized.

There's so much I could do in there. I wanna fill 'em up with vanilla ice cream and make hot fudge sundaes on both sides of his face. I wanna fit his dimples with jacuzzis and swim in them until my fingertips pucker. I wanna flank them with fur pelts and roll around like a cavewoman on her wedding night. (Do cavewomen even have weddings? Whatever.)

I wonder if he'll let me touch 'em. Probably not. It's best to just sit here and quietly take them in, like a lecture from a distinguished professor. In other news, now I understand how Mario Lopez has managed to have a career that's spanned decades: IT'S THE DIMPLES, STUPID! 

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Are Annoying About Their Birthday

The face I make when I get the invite to his fancy birthday dinner

I dread when his birthday month comes around because I know that he's going to make a huge fuss about it. Every year, it's the same: He'll plan an elaborate birthday dinner at a loud, expensive restaurant then pick a lame bar for all of his friends to buy him drinks at after.

To announce his party, he'll send a mass email with all the recipients bcc'd so I'll have no idea who else is going. Will I know anyone else there? Will I be banished to a far corner of the table forced to make small talk with his boring co-workers? Ugh! Will people be cool and kick in enough money to cover their food or will I have to overpay to compensate for the cheapskates? It sounds terrible all-around.

Saying I'll maybe swing by won't cut it because he needs to know an exact headcount to make the reservations. I have to give him an answer. And, if I don't go to his birthday dinner, I better show up at the designated bar after and buy him at least two drinks.

I can already tell you how the night will end. During the party, thanks to dozens of whiskey shots, he'll take it too far, getting drunk off his little ass. When the bars close is when the real mischief will start. He'll swing from a street sign. He'll smash a bottle in the street. He'll cry in front of a police officer. Right before he passes out on the sidewalk, he'll start assessing his life and how it doesn't measure up to his expectations. He thought he'd be married by now. He thought he'd own a home. He thought he'd have his shit together. But, he doesn't.

The worst thing I could do is blow it off entirely. I'd get a snippy text the next morning demanding to know where I was and why I didn't go. You wanna know what I did? I layed around in sweatpants and watched the Jersey Shore. And, it was more fun. The only way to get back on his good side is if I promise to take him out for dinner and drinks to celebrate the 29th year of his life later on in the week. That will placate him. For now. Until next year when we do it all over again.

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I Feel I Failed To Impress Her With Her Birthday Surprise

I have to say, I'm really enjoying these reader submissions. We have another one from Zack, who got a a big ol' heap of sludge dredged from Dontgiveafuck Bay when he coordinated a special birthday surprise for his girl.

I planned a perfect surprise birthday trip and managed to keep her in the dark until the last second. That's some tough shit to pull off. Needless to say, I was stoked when everything went perfectly. Yet somehow, she was completely unimpressed.

Several months before, we spotted some deer while on a hike and she mentioned how much she loved deer. Later that night, I added a note about that to the Girlfriend File. A few weeks before her birthday, I pulled up the file looking for ideas. Several phone calls later, I found a friend of a friend of a friend who just happened to work at a zoo a few hours away. And they had deer. And the deer had just given birth to babies. Jackpot!

I kept it all secret, and she had no idea what was going on until the animal handler at the deer paddock opened the side door and called her name. Her expression was absolutely adorable and I filled an SD card with pics of her feeding and playing with the fawns. To paraphrase the immortal Clark Griswold, I was afraid she'd need plastic surgery to remove her smile.

And yet here we are: it is 9:00pm and she's pissed off. Why? Because apparently I, “didn't get her anything for her birthday.” Exsqueeze me?! What does she think that trip was? This ain't Seaworld, where I throw down a twenty dollar bill and an hour later a horny dolphin tries to mount my girlfriend. Zoos don't just let random people off the street go behind the scenes and get up-close with the animals. It took a goddamn month of phone calls, signing paperwork and petitioning the board of directors to get permission to make that happen.

And I really don't see the appeal of giving “stuff” as presents. Books, clothes, jewelry; it's all temporary. Wear it once, read it once, and a few years later it gets thrown out when you move. Experiences last forever, and those are the kinds of gifts I like to give.

I had no idea she also wanted something shiny in addition to that totally awesome trip. I really didn't know what to give her, though I do keep one item for emergencies like this: a Hallmark card that reads, “Congratulations on being single again!” I'm pretty sure that's how this argument will end.

You should've had a baby deer give her that Hallmark card. Like, have it attached to it's neck with a pink ribbon. How funny would that have been, right? Make Bambi swing the ax. I'm laughing just thinking about it. 

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Little Known Fact: I Can't Believe I Was Ever Obsessed With Him

THIS is the guy I was infatuated with for four years? What the hell was I thinking? What was his appeal? If I'm being honest, his hair is thin, he smells like an onion ring and his sneakers are wack.

I'm downright thunderstuck at how little I'm attracted to him. THIS IS GREAT NEWS!

I think back to all the times I cried over him. I think about how many nights I tossed and turned, consumed by sadness and frustration at his mixed signals. I think back to the panicked phone calls to friends when I saw him show up to a party with another girl. Now, he's in front of me and I feel nothing, not one flash of interest.

When he suggested that we get together sometime "for old time's sake," I winced. Why on earth would we do that? No way, Jose. Is this what Wilson Philips sang about, "breaking free from these chains"? Because, it rules. Yippee!

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: She Kicked My Ass on the Playground

From our homie, Eric E. I love this guy!

She tossed me the football, issuing a challenge: “Let’s see if you can get past me, Buttercup.” She hunched her shoulders and rushed me like a linebacker.

I hesitated, tucked the ball, and faked a move to the right. She hit me full-on, her momentum carrying us both to the ground. With me pinned down, she used her forearm to mash my face into the grass. I felt her grab the ball, jump up, and sprint past me. I rolled over and looked on helplessly as she celebrated in an imaginary end zone.

Did I just get my ass kicked by someone who smells like coconut oil?

I felt dejected, so I played hurt. She marched over and prodded me with the toe of her tiny sneaker. “Quit your moaning, Buttercup,” she taunted.

“What happened to stroking a man’s ego?” I asked from the ground.

“Show me a man, and I’ll be happy to."

Ouch. What was I dealing with here? Obviously, she wasn’t suffering from Avian Bone Syndrome, like Phoebe on 30 Rock. Nor was she a knuckleheaded bruiser who wanted to light farts on my head. She was something in-between: She was a jock.

I accepted that she outmatched me athletically. She had played varsity lacrosse in school, whereas I had been dismissed from Little League Baseball due to my lackluster performance. And, I wondered how this might affect our relationship: Would she ever be disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for extreme sports? Would she be let down if I skipped the Mojave Desert Triathlon to practice my Gaelic for an upcoming tour of the Whiskey Trail? Could I be happy as the WALL-E to her EVE?

I took the ball and trotted up the field. “OK, Pinky Tuscadero,” I shouted. “Prepare to receive.” As I watched her stretching her legs, I visualized where I’d put my hands for the tackle. The game was now a full contact event.

Little known fact: my first kiss was with my neighbor. We both were little kids, we couldn't have been older than six. I informed him that I wanted to kiss him and he flatly refused. So, I tackled him down to the ground, jumped on top of his chest and forcibly kissed him. He totally flipped out and furiously rubbed his lips on his sleeve, tears streaking down his chubby cheeks. Then, he threw dirt at me and ran home. The moral of the story: Boys are fun to fuck with. They just are. 

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lone, Off-Brand Cotton Swab

When I asked him for a Q-tip, he said, "Sorry, babe. I don't have any." Frankly, a bathroom without Q-tips is a bathroom I don't wanna be in. I have needs that can only be met with a firm stick with cotton tightly wound on both sides. I have eyeliner to correct. I have mascara smeared under my eyebrow I have to wipe away. I have an itch in my ear THAT NEEDS TO BE SCRATCHED.

He searched around for a bit and found a cotton swab at the bottom of an errant drawer, swimming amongst disposable razors and crusty bottles of stinky shaving cream. It was slightly damp, but he presented it to me beaming like he'd just found Chester Copperpot's treasure map. 

I examined the swab closely. The cotton was all loosy goosey, totally uninterested in wiping away any kind of product from my face. And, it was wispy, like a Norwegian preteen's leg hair. Clearly, this was an off-brand swab. A Q-tip always stands at attention, ready for the job. Off-brand cotton swabs are limp, like they'd go AWOL at the first sign of trouble. There was no way it was going to scratch my itchy ear successfully.

Under his watchful gaze, I loaded it in. Immediately, it bent into a 90 degree angle. I felt like I had a weak cotton crank jutting out of my skull. It basically committed suicide in my ear canal because it failed at the one thing it's designed to do. And, that just made me sad.

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Reader Submitted Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "You're Amazing But..."

From Jess, who is amazing. That's it; she's amazing! No "but" needed. 

Now, THAT'S an amazing butt!

After two months of this dude being hot and heavy for me, he texts me letting me know he needs a break. Within said text message was the phrase, "You're amazing but..." There shouldn't be a but after that. This is so mind numbingly fucked up on so many levels. It comes off as so patronizing. I am amazing, you don't need to tell me that. Also, if I am so amazing why are you texting me that you need a break?

While I'm here, could we start a "Behaviors I'd Like To Stab In The Face" series ,because texting important relationship updates is definitely one of them.

I wish I could say he was young or whatever but at 35, this grown ass man should know better, right?

Yikes. The only thing amazing about him is how amazingly stupid he sounds. Well, I don't know him. Maybe he was a nice guy. You clearly liked him for a reason. But, that whole break business? What are you, a Kit Kat? He's all, "Gimme a break," and you're like, "Whaaaaa?" That break stuff is some bullshit right there. Nah, fuck it. He sucks.

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Reader Submitted Bonerkiller: Her Artwork

From our homie, Zack, who is unmoved by her artwork.

I'll admit it: I have no ability to appreciate art. Deep down, I suspect there's a genetic marker on the Y Chromosome that inhibits such an understanding. But I'd always figured women, lacking said chromosome, all possessed the capacity to truly appreciate art. Until I walked into her house.

The first thing I saw on the wall is a drawing of a rhino with an enormous horn and a naked woman wrapped around it. Even I could grasp the overt symbolism of that one. There's no way a woman purchased this. Did her ex have a greasy rattail? Did he sport dirty wifebeaters and gnarly cutoff jean shorts? 'Cause a dude like that would totally have this image painted on the hood of his '73 Firebird.

Oh, but here's one I remember: "Guernica" by Picasso. Nothing really says "lose the pants, big boy" like a Cubist depiction of the firebombing of a Spanish town. Seriously, that thing is freaking me out.

I hoped the bedroom would be free of anything too boner-killing, and I wasn't paying too much attention as we staggered in there. Sadly, I looked up right as things were getting interesting and saw the framed portraits of her parents staring down at me from the wall. I felt like I'm fourteen again and my first girlfriend's parents walked in and caught us fooling around. Game over. An entire bottle of Cialis couldn't get this party going again.

I offered to take her down to the annual craft fair on Corey Ave. in a few weeks to upgrade her artwork. Between the two of us, surely we could find something decent. Maybe we could score a couple of generic flower paintings that every house seems to have. Heck, I'd even be okay with vintage posters. And I *will* convince her to move the portraits of her parents; they're just too creepy.

Let the record show that I have the worst artwork in my bedroom ever. Apparently, grown men DON'T like posters of Michael J. Fox circa Teen Wolf. I've honestly repulsed men with it. One dude I brought back to my lair looked around my room in abject horror. I still josh him about it. (Remember when you hated the artwork in my bedroom? Oh, yes. It's burned in my retina.) You think hooking up with her parents pictures looking at you is hard? Try hooking up with a huge poster of an '80s heartthrob staring at you like you're a preteen superfan. That's probably just as creepy! Haha.

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Bonerkiller: Girls Who Try To Convert Me To Their Religion

Okay, I already knew something was a little weird when we're on our fourth date in three weeks and all we've done is hold hands and hug goodbye. Don't get me wrong, I like to take it slow too, but this was just a little bit too glacial.

Then when she said that she didn't drink, I thought, "Hey, maybe this would be a nice change of pace; someone I could hang with that would get me out of the bar scene every weekend."

But I guess you could say I'm officially oblivious, because I didn't put all the pieces together until I got the random phone call last night from a number I didn't recognize.

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Phil?
Me: That's me.
Caller: A friend of yours asked me to call you. I have some very exciting news to share with you. Do you have a minute to talk?
Me: Yeah, sure!
Caller: What if I told you that there was someone who loved you so much that he died for your sins in order to give you everlasting life?
Me: Uhh....what?

Religious telemarketers?! How did they find me?

Then it hits me: I think back to that dinner conversation last week where we lightly touched on the church subject and I gave my usual canned answer that I was "spiritual, but not very religious." Suddenly, it all makes sense.

Oh Lord, did she sell me out to her church?! Is she trying to convert me before we go on our fifth date?!

Now, I'm scared to call her. I'm turning the corners in my neighborhood waiting for two guys in white shirts and ties riding bicycles to accost me. I'm at the mall terrified someone's going to ask to test my thetan levels or coax me into a reading room. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Girls, I'm pretty open-minded about religion. I'm not really the church-going type, but I'm not saying I won't respect what you're into. That being said, let's keep the telemarketers out of this until we've gone on a few more dates. Or maybe never. Yes, how about never?

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I Love Love Love His Friends

That's a knee-slapper his friends would totally say

One of my favorite things about getting serious with a guy is that I get to kick it with his rag tag group of homies from way back when. They're not only the funniest group of guys ever, but they're genuinely the sweetest guys I've ever met. It's like our parents all married and now I have a circle of rad step-brothers.

There's always one chubby, hilarious guy in his group that's constantly single and you can't believe that he hasn't met someone yet. You try to suggest a friend of yours that he could potentially date but no one comes to mind. Then one night, you guys have a heart-to-heart on the back porch where he confides that he just wants to meet his future wife and you console him saying that his perfect girl is out there, you just know it. He nods and finishes the rest of his beer in one gulp, crushes the can, and goes back into the house.

Neither of you ever mention the talk, but now there's a closeness between you two. He'll ask if you want anything because he's going into the kitchen. He'll give you bear hugs when you run into him at a bar. He'll invite you to his housewarming party when he moves into his new apartment.

Then, one day, your guy tells you that his chubby friend lost 15 pounds and is seeing someone new and it's going pretty well, finger's crossed. The happiness you feel for him is overwhelming. This girl better not break his heart because YOU WILL FUCK HER UP IF SHE DOES. You narrow your eyes at the thought, like you'd honestly consider keying her car if she makes him cry. He, more than anyone, deserves to be happy.

Where was I? Oh yeah, his friends rule. So hard. I love them.

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Reader Submitted Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Girls Who Name Their Cars

From our reader Eric E., who doesn't entirely hate it when girls name their cars:

The bartender whisked away our glasses and showed us the door. Out on the sidewalk, I pointed my boots westward and readied myself for the long trek home. I was turning my head to say goodnight when she managed to get in the first shot.

"Can I give you a ride?”

“I’m not far. I can walk from here.”

“Don’t be silly! Hop in. Bob won’t mind.”

“Who’s Bob?”

“This is Bob,” she said, patting the roof of her red Volkswagen Jetta. She tossed her bag in the back, slid behind the wheel, and leaned over to open the door on my side. She was all smiles, as though reassuring me that I had nothing to fear.

I climbed in next to her. “How old are you again?”

“Oh, come on. You’re gonna give me grief about Bob?”

“No, of course not. I was just wondering about my legal exposure here. As Baretta said, ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’”

She stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. “Bob’s the best,” she insisted. “He’s loyal, handsome, and trustworthy. And he doesn’t mind if I give some random guy a ride from time to time. Can you live up to those standards?”

She had put me on the defensive. I was charmed by her wit, but her zaniness seemed forced. Did she think that any woman who's not model gorgeous has to be a wacky comedian? What else had she named? Was this her way of blocking unwanted sexual advances? Rather than feign a headache, she announces that she’s named her vagina and--ta da!--no more worries.

I settled back and silently appraised the situation. I clearly enjoyed her company, but I was dubious about her eccentricity. In the end, though, I was more enticed than deterred. After all, there’s something about a glimpse of maternal instinct that--for me, at least--can put a woman in a favorable light.

This is perhaps one of the only reader submissions I've received that I can personally relate to. I have a black Jetta that I named Bruce, a two-fold homage to both Bruce Springsteen (I bought the car in New Jersey) and to Bruce Wayne, Batman's daytime persona. He has leather seats and being manual shift, well, let's just say that there's a lot of masculine energy going on with him. Every time I take him in for repairs, I tell the mechanic to, "take good care of Bruce" and they roll their eyes at me. Guys do think it's weird to name a car, but why would'nt I? I toss enough money at his upkeep to warrant some kind of personification. Besides, it helps to have a name to curse when he needs significant, costly engine repairs. Bruuuuuuuuce, you expensive motherfucker!

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Pics and Vids: A Metric Fuckton Of Mousse

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Over-orderers

While I order one lone entree like a boring person, he's hopscotching through the menu, asking for apps, sides, and main courses willy nilly. My eyes grow wider as he rattles off his selections to the waitress. When I tell him that there's no way that he can eat so much food in one sitting, he shrugs it off and says, "I wanted to try it all." He's not kidding!

The best is when the food comes and we have to rearrange the table to accommodate his feast. He's dabbling in the mac and cheese, chomping on the grilled asparagus, then diving into his pot of Belgian-style mussels. It's a veritable smorgasbord up in here!

I honestly think it's cute when a guy orders too much. After dating so many picky eaters, I admire his willingness to try a range of foods. He doesn't finish his meal, not even close, but he always seems happy to have sampled so many options. In a weird way, even though he orders so much, he knows exactly what he wants. And, I like that. A lot.

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Are Not Lawyers By Trade Yet Have Represented Themselves As Their Own Attorney In A Court Of Law

Gonna be honest: When I found out that he fired his lawyer and represented himself in his lawsuit, it made me stop and reconsider my attraction to him. WHO DOES THAT? I feel like only crackpots and conspiracy theorists represent themselves in a court of law. I know for a fact that this guy doesn't have any legal training, so why on earth would he volunteer to do it? It's crazy! I feel like this is something Mel Gibson or Michael Lohan would do. Yikes.

I can't stop picturing him decked out in an ill-fitting suit, shuffling papers around, and submitting irrelevant objects as evidence. Maybe he objected to the wrong things at the wrong times or used legal jargon incorrectly. Now, I'm picturing the pinched, sour face he'd make if the judge announced that his objection was overruled. He's like Joe Pesci in the beginning of My Cousin Vinny (before he got his shit together and won the townspeople's hearts).

Why did he volunteer to do it? Did he want to say, "Your Honor, I rest my case!" out loud THAT badly? How can I ever take him seriously now? The answer is that I can't. 

On the plus side, finding out he acted as his own lawyer is one of the funniest reasons I've ever had my boner killed. So, congratulations, I guess?

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Nervously Run Their Fingers Through Their Hair

Is it too late to administer some behavioral conditioning to correct this? Because every time his mitts head towards his dome--which is constantly--I want to smack them.

I mean, his hair is greasy to begin with, but every time he runs his yellow fingers through his stringy mane, I wanna gag. Can he please pick up a new nervous habit? Because, honestly, this is one of the worst habits a guy can cultivate. It's repulsive. I don't want to be anywhere near his head or his hands, which are the two things you need to makeout properly! He's shooting himself in his makeout foot here.

I'm sitting there watching him do it and the more I watch him, the more nervous he gets and the more he does it. I'm gonna need Chris Crocker to come and make a personal videogram saying, "LEAVE YOUR HAIR ALONE!" F'real.

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Reader Submitted Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Ain't Gonna Toss Her Gifts Out

From Zack, who, let's face it, isn't gonna toss these things out.

It starts out innocently. She'll browse through my bookshelves, and wedged between some obscure book on Plains Indian mythology and a copy of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, she'll spot a worn copy of War and Peace. And because the man in the clouds hates me, she'll pick it up and see the inscription: something long, sappy, and ending with te amabo semper. Incidentally, giving your boyfriend a copy of War and Peace with a sappy Latin inscription is hereby declared the official metric standard of dorkiness. [Ed. note--That phrase translates to "I will always love you." Was she a Whitney Houston fan, perchance?]

Or she'll look for a Q-tip in my bathroom and find half a dozen unused bottles of cologne that make the drawer smell like a forest on a beach during a rainstorm. Yeah, they were all given to me by my exes, and I never got around to throwing them out. (I hate wearing cologne).

Or that painting that she likes that hangs in my living room. She doesn't know it, but one of my exes painted that. If you could see the back, you'd find a little dedication.

Look, my house is chock full of these little Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, and I'm not about to throw them out. They are exes for a reason, after all. I liked War and Peace, and I love that painting, and I honestly don't see why I should get rid of them just because I've seen the naughty bits of the people who gave them to me.

So let's skip the arguing, the debating, and the sulking. We both know how this ends: I'll be too stubborn to throw them out (though I will concede and let you toss the colognes), and you'll add them to the list of things in my house you plan to sneakily get rid of.

I can respect this because it's your house and you can decorate it any way you like. But if we move in together, this shit is hittin' the curb first.

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Let Me Get This Straight. THAT Is His New Girl? Pffffft.

The one over there, with the red hair and the pleated miniskirt? You've gotta be shittin' me. No way. No fucking way. Fuck you. Drop dead.

Over there, by the speaker? With the leather choker and the black boots? Clearly, they're from Payless Shoe Source. Those shiny, chunky boots were a BOGO, honey. Okay? They must've been! She didn't pay full price for those. They must've been half off with another purchase.

So, you're telling me THAT girl over there is his new woman? Fuck off and die. There's no way! She looks like an extra on Melrose Place or some shit. She looks like she's auditioning for The Craft. Get outta here! There's no way he's dating her. No fucking way. After me? This is what he chooses after me? Fuck off. I don't believe it.

He could've had caviar and he chose Bazooka Joe. What an idiot. I feel sorry for him. He left THIS *motions towards myself* and chose THAT *motions towards her* I have to sit down. Her? HER? I can't believe it.

You know what? You know who I feel sorry for? I feel sorry for myself because I fell for a guy who finds that kind of woman attractive. That's some bullshit right there. Can we all agree on that? Oy vey. What a nightmare. I can't even--there are no words. HER? Oh my god.

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Pics and Vids: Hats Off To You

I totally have someone in mind for him.

Who else was thinking Julia Child? Raise your hand. I'm not sure what kind of future fun he has in mind, but I'm totally on board. Maybe it involves a jetpack or a hoverboard or astronaut ice cream. Who knows? Btdubs, where'd he pick this trucker hat up? Deadbeat Dads 'R' Us? *collar tug*  

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack Of A Recycling Bin

I hope she recycled those cans too

"Where should I put this beer bottle? Where's your recycling bin?" I asked, rooting around his kitchen.

He twisted around in his chair and said, "Oh, yeah. I don't have one. Just toss it in the trashcan." Then, he turned his attention back to the television.

"You don't have a recycling bin? What the fuck? Who doesn't recycle? Do you hate the Earth?" I can't believe he doesn't recycle! It takes like, ZERO effort to put your things in another bag separate from one's trash.

"Honestly, it really doesn't matter in the scheme of things if I recycle, like, the two cans I use during the week, you know? It's not a big deal. Just put it in the trash."

"Wow. I guess you saw Wall-E and said, 'That looks like a pretty rad future for humanity.' Get a recycling bin, dude." I slammed the bottle in the trash so it'd make a loud noise. I wanted to register my discontent here.

Sensing my disapproval, he turned around again. "It doesn't even matter because the homeless men around here are going to pick all the cans out regardless. It's like I'm helping them earn a living in a weird way." Then, he took a long pull from his beer bottle.

"So, your justification is that you're helping the homeless at the expense of the Earth? That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Seriously, the dumbest."

Guys who don't have a recycling bin need to get the memo that caring about the Earth is a turn-on. It's a small gesture, but we all gotta do our part. Besides, our city has a recycling program so we might as well take advantage of it, ya know?

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Reader Submitted Bonerkiller: Smelly Nellys

Guys, Zack is on a ROLL. He's adorable, even when he's crinkling his nose at girls who go a little crazy at the perfume counter.

It started out so well. Thunderstorms canceled my original plan to take her out, but a nice quiet dinner made for a suitable backup. Good food, good music and back to my place to “watch” a movie. A little snuggling on the couch was exactly what I needed after a long day at work.

Mmm, I like that perfume. But I'm not sure about the shampoo, conditioner, and hairspray. Or the body wash. Or the deodorant. Wait, is that the strawberry-scented hand lotion they sell at The Body Shop? That stuff is the pixie stick of scents: no resemblance to the actual fruit and it makes my stomach queasy.

My nostrils are now officially burning. Everything was going great until I snuggled with a jar of potpourri. If I pour on an entire bottle of Aqua Velva, would it block the smell radiating off her body?

Do you think she'd be offended if I slipped one (or a dozen) of those pine tree air fresheners around her neck?

Scents are like hard liquor: pick one and rock it.

This is funny but it doesn't apply to me. I always smell perfect, like a freshly washed rose petal on her way to prom night. I'm smelling my hair right now, and it smells like high-fiving a dryer sheet while my deodorant smells like a baby's knee aka nothing. And, my wrist smells like an afternoon breeze's earlobe. Just lettin' you know, I keep my scents in check. I'm scensible with my scents, if you will.

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Quick Rant: Well, That's Random

Everyone gets random friend requests. I got a friend request from the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade last year and I was semi-stoked for roughly half a minute. I accepted it because I owed it to the 13-year-old version of myself; she would've been pumped.

However, I have now officially received the most random friend request yet. It's from a guy that I met once TEN YEARS AGO. I was at a dingy punk bar in Chicago and we made out by the jukebox for about 20 minutes. That's it. That was the only interaction we've ever had. The only reason I remember him at all is because he has a stupid name. It was so stupid, I asked to see his driver's license to make sure that it was his legal name. It was. I laughed.

So, I was STUNNED to see his silly name pop up in my inbox. I remember him because of his stupid name, but I have NO IDEA why he'd remember me, much less seek me out. We don't live in the same city anymore. We haven't talked since BEFORE GEORGE W. WAS (arguably) ELECTED. The last time I saw him, the iPod wasn't invented yet and the Olsen twins weren't even legal. 

Frankly, I'm not sure if that one interaction ten years ago would support the Internet friendship that he seems to be seeking. In other words, I ignored his Facebook friend request.

What's the most random friend request you've received? Did you accept it? Tell me in the comments.

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Real Talk: I Will Chalk My Crush On Him Up To Prison Conditions

Keanu was definitely the hottest guy on the bus

Dear Sir,

I've given this issue some thought and I've come to the conclusion that my intense crush on you was due to the fact that we were together in close quarters. I can honestly say of the four guys we traveled with for the past week, you were the hottest one of the group. Definitely. Hands down.

Granted two of the guys were married and one guy was gay, but out of those odds, you did emerge as the most desirable candidate for me to crush on. Congrats!

Now that we're back, I realize that my feelings for you were shallow and fleeting. After doing one Google search for your name during a light stalking session, I realized that my heart wasn't in it. I didn't care about reading your tweets or skimming through your photo blog. I can confidently say that my crush on you seemed to be based on lack of other options coupled with the thrill of being in a new town.

Thanks for being my crush for one week. And, oh, what a great week it was. I wish you the best in all of your future endeavors. It was fun while it lasted.

Warmly,
Shmitten Kitten

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Bonerkiller: His Woefully Immature Sense of Humor

From Andrea, who can appreciate a well-timed dick joke as much as the next girl but doesn't appreciate a constant barrage of them because COME THE FUCK ON, WE'RE ON A DATE, DUDE!

"That's what she said!"

I don't know about you, but I was never a twelve-year-old boy. Because of this, I simply don't get jerkoff humor. Call it a personal idiosyncrasy if you will, but puerile jokes just don't get me in the mood.

His first "joke" was on our first date. I generally consider first dates to be sort of a rough draft, so I let it slide. The rest of the evening was fine. I would even go so far as to say I enjoyed myself. I chalked up his awkward sex joke to a moment of nervousness on his part, right?

When he texted me to go out again, I recommended a snazzy '60s-themed pool-shark joint that used to be a bomb shelter. His response to my excellent taste in venue? "Pool, a game where guys use wood to knock balls into holes. Haha."

Of course, it's too late to break the date now. I showed up, looking like my fabulous self. I decided to show off my awesomeness by launching into a conversation on video games. I mentioned that I have a Wii. His response? "I have a Wii, too. Sometimes I like to take it out and play with it."

At that point, I considered throwing my drink in his face and shouting, "Do I look like I'm in seventh grade to you? Because your inappropriate sex jokes are NOT FUNNY." Instead, I finished my drink and left his too-drunk-to-drive ass stranded at the bar.

I dated a guy like this last year. He would try to instant message me all day, every day from his boring desk job. And, he was the worst online chatter EVER. He'd write "lol" to everything I'd type and he'd carelessly misspell easy words, which annoyed me. His favorite thing to say was, "You've just turned me from 6 o'clock to midnight," which is a lame analog clock/ dick joke that wasn't funny in the first place. But, he'd constantly say it to me. It was like, his catchphrase! Gross. He didn't last long. RIP Guy I Went On Three Dates With Who Was A Terrible Chatter That Also Made Lame Dick Jokes, RIP. *tips my 40*

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Reader Submitted Bonergrower: Misses With Manners

From our homie Zack, who appreciates some old-fashioned manners:

Water bill, electric bill, mass-mailed crap: Meh, another typical day's mail. What's this, a letter from someone in Miami? I don't recognize the name. Who is she and how the devil did she get my address?

Upon reading the contents, the name finally clicks. I briefly met this girl when I drove down for my buddy's birthday party. I lent her a handkerchief when some drunk spilled his beer all over her.

And here it is, freshly laundered with a little thank you note. I'm floored. I've carried handkerchiefs for years and I can count on one finger the number of times someone has returned one. Now I'll have to re-learn cursive so I can pen a response.

She doesn't know me, she doesn't know where I live. Even our mutual friend doesn't know where I live. I'm playing Six Degrees trying to trace her back to one of the five friends who have my new address, and it is a minimum of four hops. That's a helluva lot of effort to return something that's cheaper than a latte.

Those are some seriously old-school manners. Did I fall asleep and wake up in an Austen novel? Does she have a chambermaid who did it for her? Did she read Miss Manners as a girl? If she also knows the correct answer to the question, "Do you have your pocketknife with you?" I will totally swoon, manliness be damned.

I won't mention this to my friend for fear he'll regale me with stories about her doing keg stands at the party and flashing the deejay. I'd hate to sully this perfect image I have of her. Just leave me here to pretend I met the only woman in Miami who didn't learn manners from watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

This is adorable. I'm not sure if I have good manners when I'm out with a guy. I say, "please," "thank you," and I tell the Internet when he fucks up our date. That's good manners, right?

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Pics and Vids: A Kitten Headband!

Gonna strut on down to Claire's Boutique and pick me up one of these bad boys.

via

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Story Time: F*ck You

Everyone is geeking out about Cee Lo's new song, "F*ck You." Have you seen it? It's a total riot:




I can think of three kinds of people I'd like to say FUCK YOU to off the top of my head:

1. Guys who say that they aren't "ready" to date me. Like watching a movie cuddled up on his couch is so demanding. FUCK YOU!
2. Married guys who still hit on me. I'm sure his wife would be thrilled. FUCK YOU!
3. Guys who interrupt me when I'm out with my best friend, shove their hand between us and wait for us both to shake it and introduce ourselves. FUCK YOU!

What do you wanna say FUCK YOU to? Tell me in the comments. (Try it, it's kinda fun.)

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I Love Love Love Boys That Wear A Jaunty Bandana Around Their Neck

Well, look at what we have here! *sits up straighter and bats eyelashes as he walks past me with his iced coffee* I'm not sure why he'd need a red bandana as an accessory when it's 96 degrees out and we're smack dab in the middle of a sweltering city, but I'm lovin' it (sang to the tune of the McDonald's jingle).

Is he a bank robber? A ranch hand? A bandit? I don't know and I don't care because he is the cutest guy on this block. He's like if a unicorn and a bottle of hot sauce mated. HE'S ADORABLE! He probably has a PhD in Breakfast Burrito Preparation with a minor in Horsing Around.

I will not picture him tying it around his neck. I will not imagine how it smells (probably like neck sweat and stress, I'm guessing.) I will not picture him buying it. I will just pretend that it's always been on his neck, like a cute deformity.

Just don't tell me that he still uses MySpace to email people. Don't tell me that he's the xylophone player in a student alt rock band. And, don't tell me about how he probably only dates teenagers and doesn't talk to his dad. Shhhhhh. Let me just stare at him and enjoy it, like a double rainbow.

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