In my quest to reduce the size of my ass, I paid a ridiculous amount of money for a personal trainer at the gym. My trainer was short, skinny, and totally annoying. She was 21, talked about how she loved to run for miles, and would point out all the men she had dated at the gym. Like I cared. Stop talking and make my ass smaller, lady!!
Being chubby does not mean I'm weak. I used to play sports growing up, I can still run a mile faster than most of my friends, and I can bench press midgets. My trainer saw just how strong I was and began to work me out as thought I was training for the Olympics. She started to have me do things that she would do herself to stay in shape. Things which included jumping on and off a large stool.
Chubby girls should not jump off of stools. Or anything, for that matter. I jumped and ended up tearing my MCL. I spent the next month limping, not able to bend my knee, and in constant pain. After almost 6 weeks, I finally gave in and went to see the Orthopedic Surgeon. My insurance allowed me to pick the doctor I wanted to see, so I picked the cutest one. We shall call him Dr. Love.
He was tall, handsome, from Chicago, and a surgeon. I couldn't wait for him to touch my knee. My first appointment consisted of a lot of giggling and seduction ... with my eyes. At the end of my appointment, Dr. Love asked if I was Persian. How could he know such a thing? His response: "You have big, beautiful, Persian eyes." He totally wants me, YES!
Before I left, he placed his hand on my shoulder, told me to take care of my knee and that he'd see me again in two weeks. I had two weeks to figure out how to make him love me.
For my second appointment, I had an agenda. My knee was not getting any better and I had a girl's weekend trip to Las Vegas coming up. I needed a shot of cortisone. I knew Dr. Love was against it, he thought I was too young, blah blah blah, but when baby wants something, baby gets it.
I wore a dress to my appointment (easy access to the knee. duh). I made sure to smile, undress him with my eyes, and hang on every word he said. He didn't want to inject me, but I told him he was the only doctor I trusted, the only man that could heal me, my one and only knight in shining armor. He gave in. I had him wrapped around my finger and broken knee and it was only my second appointment.
As he was injecting, I told him that every time he touches my knee, he touches a special place in my heart. Dr. Love giggled. He looked me in the eyes and said "I didn't know the heart was connected to the knee bone!"
We talked for almost 20 minutes about growing up in Chicago, how we love Las Vegas, and our favorite buffets. He put his hand on my shoulder, almost giving me a hug, and told me to have a great time and come back to see him in a few weeks.
I went to Vegas with my friends, had a blast, and my knee didn't bother me one bit the entire time. I got home, printed out a picture of me and the girls, and put it in a card that read:
Dear Dr. Love,
Thank you so much for injecting me. My trip to Las Vegas with the girls was great! You had me feeling like a million bucks. Feel free to call me anytime, when you're not in the office."
I left my phone number, spritzed the card with my perfume, and sent it to my future lover.
Dr. Love called 5 days later. I almost dropped the phone when I heard his voicemail. I waited a few days before returning his call - gotta keep him on his toes! He thanked me for my thoughtful card and wanted to take me to dinner so he could hear all about my trip.
You'd think that an experienced surgeon, who runs a hospital in Uganda in his spare time, has worked with multiple NFL teams, and has performed rare operations, would be cocky, spend the entire time bragging, or just be downright arrogant. Not Dr. Love. He was boring.
In an effort to woo me, in a non bragging kind of way, he didn't speak of any of the cool things he did. He told me of his love for reading next to the fireplace, spending weekends in Aspen and drinking wine, and how he loved the ocean. SIGH.
I had spent years praying to my sweet Baby Jesus to send me a doctor to marry. A tall, dark, handsome doctor. He finally sends me the doctor and forgets to give him a personality.
Lesson Learned:
When praying for your dream man. Be very specific.
Ex: Dear Baby Jesus,
Please send me a 6 foot tall man, with all his teeth and limbs. One who doesn't drink too much and only swears at the TV. Please baby Jesus, let him be a doctor, funny, and have a soft spot for Chihuahuas. Oh, and make sure he washes his hands. Amen.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Boob - Tube
Tube had a strict rule. No hanky-panky until the 12th date. Tube said he didn't want to tell our future children that they were made on our 3rd date. I agreed it would be best to wait.
I kept track of our dates in my calendar. It's not like I'm some raging sexual predator, but he was the first man, in a long time, that I couldn't keep my hands off of. Only problem was, I couldn't touch the man without him reminding me that it wasn't our 12th date. So annoying.
Our 11th date was spent playing pool with a bunch of Tube's friends. Tube and I were a team, but I never got a turn. After the first few tries, Tube told me it was ok to sit and watch. How rude; he's supposed to let me play, regardless of how bad I am. He should take this opportunity to teach me like they do in the movies. But no, Tube played. So I took the opportunity to drink everyone's beer. Ha! I win, suckers.
I drank so much beer that I needed help to the car. Tube wasn't going to let me drive home, I wasn't going to go home, so Tube drove me to his place. Because our 11th date had gone past midnight, I began to badger my Tube, reminding him incessantly that it was technically our 12th date. Classy, I know.
We get to his place, he tucks me into his bed, while he sleeps outside of the covers. Eventually, to shut me up, Tube kisses me. YES!! This is totally going to happen. The making out gets kinda heavy and I drunkenly rip my shirt off. Tube's hands start to wander all over the place.
Out of nowhere, everything stops. It's dark in his room so I can't see a damn thing. "What's this?" he asks me. My heart sinks. What could it be? I reach my hand out, feeling around in the dark, so I can feel what he's talking about.
It's a sock. That had just been in my bra. CRAP. I forgot to take out my secret weapons. I'm screwed.
At this point in my life, I had been using my dad's Kirkland Brand Dress Socks, from Costco, to stuff my bras. Don't judge me!! It works really well. It looks great AND it's an inexpensive way to perk the girls. Except that I totally forgot about my sock enhancements because I was tipsy from my boozing.
I scurry around looking for my shirt before Tube gets the chance to dig for the other sock. It was like a bad Hanes commercial. This was definitely not going my way.
I run out of the house, sock in hand, and head straight to my car. I'm too drunk to drive, and I know better, so I just sit in the car. With the doors locked. In Tube's driveway.
Tube comes out to find me. I'm so embarrassed. I waited months for this to happen, I dreamt of what it would be like, and when I finally get the chance to seal the deal, I forget to remove the rolled dress socks from my bra? Ugh.
Tube talks me into going back inside and promises to never mention my sock situation. I was grateful that he was so understanding.
The next week, technically out 12th date, Tube picked me up and had a gift waiting for me in the car. Excited, I rip into the bag.
The bastard bought me 3 pairs of men's dress socks.
Lesson Learned:
Socks should only be worn on your feet. If worn anywhere else people will make fun of you forever.
I kept track of our dates in my calendar. It's not like I'm some raging sexual predator, but he was the first man, in a long time, that I couldn't keep my hands off of. Only problem was, I couldn't touch the man without him reminding me that it wasn't our 12th date. So annoying.
Our 11th date was spent playing pool with a bunch of Tube's friends. Tube and I were a team, but I never got a turn. After the first few tries, Tube told me it was ok to sit and watch. How rude; he's supposed to let me play, regardless of how bad I am. He should take this opportunity to teach me like they do in the movies. But no, Tube played. So I took the opportunity to drink everyone's beer. Ha! I win, suckers.
I drank so much beer that I needed help to the car. Tube wasn't going to let me drive home, I wasn't going to go home, so Tube drove me to his place. Because our 11th date had gone past midnight, I began to badger my Tube, reminding him incessantly that it was technically our 12th date. Classy, I know.
We get to his place, he tucks me into his bed, while he sleeps outside of the covers. Eventually, to shut me up, Tube kisses me. YES!! This is totally going to happen. The making out gets kinda heavy and I drunkenly rip my shirt off. Tube's hands start to wander all over the place.
Out of nowhere, everything stops. It's dark in his room so I can't see a damn thing. "What's this?" he asks me. My heart sinks. What could it be? I reach my hand out, feeling around in the dark, so I can feel what he's talking about.
It's a sock. That had just been in my bra. CRAP. I forgot to take out my secret weapons. I'm screwed.
At this point in my life, I had been using my dad's Kirkland Brand Dress Socks, from Costco, to stuff my bras. Don't judge me!! It works really well. It looks great AND it's an inexpensive way to perk the girls. Except that I totally forgot about my sock enhancements because I was tipsy from my boozing.
I scurry around looking for my shirt before Tube gets the chance to dig for the other sock. It was like a bad Hanes commercial. This was definitely not going my way.
I run out of the house, sock in hand, and head straight to my car. I'm too drunk to drive, and I know better, so I just sit in the car. With the doors locked. In Tube's driveway.
Tube comes out to find me. I'm so embarrassed. I waited months for this to happen, I dreamt of what it would be like, and when I finally get the chance to seal the deal, I forget to remove the rolled dress socks from my bra? Ugh.
Tube talks me into going back inside and promises to never mention my sock situation. I was grateful that he was so understanding.
The next week, technically out 12th date, Tube picked me up and had a gift waiting for me in the car. Excited, I rip into the bag.
The bastard bought me 3 pairs of men's dress socks.
Lesson Learned:
Socks should only be worn on your feet. If worn anywhere else people will make fun of you forever.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
You're a big pickle.
I'm pretty aggressive. Not just in a physical, rub me down with oil and let's start wrestling kind of way, but also in my mannerisms, attitude, and general personality. I'm almost always assertive, bold, and extremely outgoing. Some men love it. Some men wish they'd never met me.
Gerkin was always afraid of me. I think, deep down, he wanted to see if he was man enough to handle me. He would always make comments about how tough I was, how he was afraid I'd kick him, or that he was scared of me. I thought it was cute; how meek and vulnerable that Gerkin was.
When Gerkin looked at me, he saw Xena Warrior Princess of Doom. When I looked at Gerkin, I saw a baby bird, waiting for it's mother to spit chewed up worms into his mouth. But I guess what they say is true - opposites attract.
When Gerkin and I hung out, it usually involved food. I tried to get him to do other things. I'd ask if he wanted to bowl, maybe shoot some pool, even pretend we know how to play darts ... he just wanted to take me to dinner. I think he was afraid I'd beat him at anything other than eating.
One day, Gerkin decided he would pick me up from work on my lunch break. He had brought sandwiches. We drove to a little park off the shores to enjoy the cute little lunch my Gerkin had made. With our sandwiches, Gerkin packed us a pickle each. The kind of pickles you buy at a baseball game, on the Eastside, on a hot day. The kind, so big, that the pickle itself becomes a meal.
Words of Advice: Don't image search for "Giant Pickle" ... just trust me. It's scary.
I take one of the two giant pickles and if my memory serves me right, I may have said something about my pickle being bigger than his. I'm not sure what he heard, or how he could have misinterpreted what I said, but Gerkin looked at me really confused. Then looked at his crotch. Then looked at my pickle. Then he spoke. "No, my pickle is definitely bigger."
Now, when looking at the two actual green pickles, that we were to eat, mine was bigger. When he said that his personal, hopefully not green, man-pickle was bigger, I was scared. I mean, who says that at lunch?!?! I'm trying to eat my sandwich, thank you.
I try not to laugh, throw up, or make any kind of facial expression that would let Gerkin know that he was weird. I continue to eat my sandwich because a.) I was starving b.) he made a pretty awesome sandwich and c.) the last thing I wanted to talk about while eating a real pickle, was his man-pickle.
We finished our lunch and I noticed that Gerkin never ate his pickle. Weird.
We get into his car and he reaches into the back seat, grabs the left over pickle, and says "You may think your pickle is bigger, but mine definitely wins." He then, grabbed his man-pickle, to compare to the green pickle, he was supposed to eat for lunch. AWKWARD.
I glanced only because it was the polite thing to do. I mean, if I didn't look, what if he pickle slapped me? I was scared. I just wanted to get away from Gerkin and his pickles. Clearly, this was a pissing contest. Just because I made one tiny comment, he felt the need to overcompensate, prove his manliness, and compare himself to a vegetable. After feeding me one.
I tell Gerkin he's right. His man pickle wins. Mine was a stupid pickle. My pickle was a mini dill pickle in comparison. Mine would be tossed out of the assembly line because it's a defected, too small, unwanted pickle. My pickle was so small, that I never had a pickle to begin with. He smiled, put both pickles away, and drove me back to work.
I have yet to eat a giant pickle since.
Lesson Learned:
If a man needs to prove to you that he's a man, he's not a man. He's just a pickle.
Gerkin was always afraid of me. I think, deep down, he wanted to see if he was man enough to handle me. He would always make comments about how tough I was, how he was afraid I'd kick him, or that he was scared of me. I thought it was cute; how meek and vulnerable that Gerkin was.
When Gerkin looked at me, he saw Xena Warrior Princess of Doom. When I looked at Gerkin, I saw a baby bird, waiting for it's mother to spit chewed up worms into his mouth. But I guess what they say is true - opposites attract.
When Gerkin and I hung out, it usually involved food. I tried to get him to do other things. I'd ask if he wanted to bowl, maybe shoot some pool, even pretend we know how to play darts ... he just wanted to take me to dinner. I think he was afraid I'd beat him at anything other than eating.
One day, Gerkin decided he would pick me up from work on my lunch break. He had brought sandwiches. We drove to a little park off the shores to enjoy the cute little lunch my Gerkin had made. With our sandwiches, Gerkin packed us a pickle each. The kind of pickles you buy at a baseball game, on the Eastside, on a hot day. The kind, so big, that the pickle itself becomes a meal.
Words of Advice: Don't image search for "Giant Pickle" ... just trust me. It's scary.
I take one of the two giant pickles and if my memory serves me right, I may have said something about my pickle being bigger than his. I'm not sure what he heard, or how he could have misinterpreted what I said, but Gerkin looked at me really confused. Then looked at his crotch. Then looked at my pickle. Then he spoke. "No, my pickle is definitely bigger."
Now, when looking at the two actual green pickles, that we were to eat, mine was bigger. When he said that his personal, hopefully not green, man-pickle was bigger, I was scared. I mean, who says that at lunch?!?! I'm trying to eat my sandwich, thank you.
I try not to laugh, throw up, or make any kind of facial expression that would let Gerkin know that he was weird. I continue to eat my sandwich because a.) I was starving b.) he made a pretty awesome sandwich and c.) the last thing I wanted to talk about while eating a real pickle, was his man-pickle.
We finished our lunch and I noticed that Gerkin never ate his pickle. Weird.
We get into his car and he reaches into the back seat, grabs the left over pickle, and says "You may think your pickle is bigger, but mine definitely wins." He then, grabbed his man-pickle, to compare to the green pickle, he was supposed to eat for lunch. AWKWARD.
I glanced only because it was the polite thing to do. I mean, if I didn't look, what if he pickle slapped me? I was scared. I just wanted to get away from Gerkin and his pickles. Clearly, this was a pissing contest. Just because I made one tiny comment, he felt the need to overcompensate, prove his manliness, and compare himself to a vegetable. After feeding me one.
I tell Gerkin he's right. His man pickle wins. Mine was a stupid pickle. My pickle was a mini dill pickle in comparison. Mine would be tossed out of the assembly line because it's a defected, too small, unwanted pickle. My pickle was so small, that I never had a pickle to begin with. He smiled, put both pickles away, and drove me back to work.
I have yet to eat a giant pickle since.
Lesson Learned:
If a man needs to prove to you that he's a man, he's not a man. He's just a pickle.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Rolaids Spells Relief
Allow me to paint a picture for you... I put on a tight black dress, cheetah print stilettos, straighten my hair, put on red lipstick and admire myself in the mirror, 20 minutes too long. I had a hot date. When I say hot, I'm talking jabenero hot. Muy caliente, super spicy, some kind of fiery gift sent directly from God, kind of hot.
I had never before dated a Cuban man. Pepino made me feel amazing. He made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the room. He always knew what to say and what to do to drive me wild. Pepino was trouble.
I had taken the day off of work to get ready for this date. I was a little nervous, but super excited. He was taking me salsa dancing. The only salsa I knew was the kind that comes in a jar. But, I was excited to try. I'm Middle Eastern. I was born to shake my hips, gyrate to loud music, while shrieking LELELELLE but I knew this was a different kind of dance. My belly dancing skills were not going to help me this time.
Looking my best, feeling nervous and excited, I waited for Pepino. He was 20 minutes late which balanced my 20 minutes of unnecessary self admiration. Pepino rings my doorbell, I take a deep breath, and I'm officially ready to dance. The dance of love. With my sweet Pepino.
He takes me to a restaurant that has a dance studio upstairs. We eat dinner, have a glass of wine, and before I know it, it's time to show him what I'm made of. Pepino excuses himself, goes to the restroom, and I walk upstairs to check out the scene.
The dance floor seems huge. There are mirrors everywhere. There is no place to hide. I strike up a conversation with the instructors telling them it's my first time. I tell them that my date, Pepino, is downstairs, but he's been here before and loves to dance. They know of the Pepino I speak of. They love Pepino. I just might also love Pepino. What a coincidence.
The class is about to begin and my Pepino is still no where to be found. One of the men in the class tells his chica that he's going to run to the bathroom and I ask him to check on my Pepino (Most men have heart attacks on the shitter, I was just being cautious!) After a few minutes, the man returns, without Pepino.
Me: "Was Pepino down there?"
Man: "Yes, but I think he's throwing up!"
I run downstairs and don't think twice about walking into the men's bathrooms. It's not my first time in one (Hey, the lines get really long for the women's bathroom, don't judge me). I hear someone puking their brains out. Poor Pepino, he must be really sick.
Me: "Pepino, do you need anything? Are you ok??"
Pepino: "Oh, I'm fine. I'll be done in a second. Don't worry"
I fetch my Pepino some water and by the time I return, he's washing his face. I try to talk him out of dancing. I don't want him to put up a front if he doesn't feel well. I instantly went from hot date, to persistent nurse when I saw how flushed my Pepino looked.
He promised me he was fine. He must have ate something bad. He wasn't going to let it ruin our night. What a trooper. We went upstairs to join the class. We dance. And you know what? I wasn't half bad. I doubt I'd win Dancing With The Stars, but there were people worse than me. Pepino was patient, he didn't get frustrated when I forgot the steps, went the wrong way, stepped on his foot, etc etc etc. He kept his hand on the small of my back, always kept me close, and for a while, I forgot that he had just puked his life away.
After the class ends, we thank the instructors, and Pepino goes to fetch our coats. Then, one of the instructors takes me to the side. Awkward. I must have been pretty bad if she wants to tell me something in private.
She leans in close and says "Pepino is bulimic. He always throws up dinner before dancing. That's why he was down there. I just thought you should know.
What is she talking about? This tall, handsome, extremely sensual, totally delicious man cannot be bulimic. It just cant be true.
We weren't even in the car for a few minutes before I question my fiery Pepino. I try not to be blunt, I want to be gentle since it's a sensitive subject, but if you know me, you know it's impossible for me to do such a thing.
Me: "Pepino... were you puking because you're bulimic?"
Pepino: "Why would you ask me that?"
Me: "The instructor pulled me aside to tell me. It's ok if you are, you don't have to be ashamed."
Pepino: "It's none of your business."
Uh oh, angry Pepino. The rest of the ride home is silent. We get to my house. I take my tight-black-dress wearing self to the front door, alone, as he drives off. A few days later, I call Pepino. No answer. What a rude bulimic.
About a week later, I get this email:
Dear Michelle,
I'm sorry I was not able to answer your question in the car. Yes, I have a problem. I hope that doesn't change how you feel about me. I'm sorry."
I respond:
Dear Pepino,
I really liked you before the instructor told me. It came as a surprise, but I was willing to work through it, with you, if you wanted to. I did not, however, like that you were a rude monkey. I cant date a man whose breath smells like puke. Nor can I, a woman who eats really well, date a man who cannot eat without puking. It's too bad cuz you were hot. Happy Purging."
Lesson Learned:
Spicy men may be hot, but they may cause upset-stomach, indigestion, diarrhea, etc. Always carry Pepto, Rolaids, or Milk of Magnisia with you. It will come in handy.
I had never before dated a Cuban man. Pepino made me feel amazing. He made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the room. He always knew what to say and what to do to drive me wild. Pepino was trouble.
I had taken the day off of work to get ready for this date. I was a little nervous, but super excited. He was taking me salsa dancing. The only salsa I knew was the kind that comes in a jar. But, I was excited to try. I'm Middle Eastern. I was born to shake my hips, gyrate to loud music, while shrieking LELELELLE but I knew this was a different kind of dance. My belly dancing skills were not going to help me this time.
Looking my best, feeling nervous and excited, I waited for Pepino. He was 20 minutes late which balanced my 20 minutes of unnecessary self admiration. Pepino rings my doorbell, I take a deep breath, and I'm officially ready to dance. The dance of love. With my sweet Pepino.
He takes me to a restaurant that has a dance studio upstairs. We eat dinner, have a glass of wine, and before I know it, it's time to show him what I'm made of. Pepino excuses himself, goes to the restroom, and I walk upstairs to check out the scene.
The dance floor seems huge. There are mirrors everywhere. There is no place to hide. I strike up a conversation with the instructors telling them it's my first time. I tell them that my date, Pepino, is downstairs, but he's been here before and loves to dance. They know of the Pepino I speak of. They love Pepino. I just might also love Pepino. What a coincidence.
The class is about to begin and my Pepino is still no where to be found. One of the men in the class tells his chica that he's going to run to the bathroom and I ask him to check on my Pepino (Most men have heart attacks on the shitter, I was just being cautious!) After a few minutes, the man returns, without Pepino.
Me: "Was Pepino down there?"
Man: "Yes, but I think he's throwing up!"
I run downstairs and don't think twice about walking into the men's bathrooms. It's not my first time in one (Hey, the lines get really long for the women's bathroom, don't judge me). I hear someone puking their brains out. Poor Pepino, he must be really sick.
Me: "Pepino, do you need anything? Are you ok??"
Pepino: "Oh, I'm fine. I'll be done in a second. Don't worry"
I fetch my Pepino some water and by the time I return, he's washing his face. I try to talk him out of dancing. I don't want him to put up a front if he doesn't feel well. I instantly went from hot date, to persistent nurse when I saw how flushed my Pepino looked.
He promised me he was fine. He must have ate something bad. He wasn't going to let it ruin our night. What a trooper. We went upstairs to join the class. We dance. And you know what? I wasn't half bad. I doubt I'd win Dancing With The Stars, but there were people worse than me. Pepino was patient, he didn't get frustrated when I forgot the steps, went the wrong way, stepped on his foot, etc etc etc. He kept his hand on the small of my back, always kept me close, and for a while, I forgot that he had just puked his life away.
After the class ends, we thank the instructors, and Pepino goes to fetch our coats. Then, one of the instructors takes me to the side. Awkward. I must have been pretty bad if she wants to tell me something in private.
She leans in close and says "Pepino is bulimic. He always throws up dinner before dancing. That's why he was down there. I just thought you should know.
What is she talking about? This tall, handsome, extremely sensual, totally delicious man cannot be bulimic. It just cant be true.
We weren't even in the car for a few minutes before I question my fiery Pepino. I try not to be blunt, I want to be gentle since it's a sensitive subject, but if you know me, you know it's impossible for me to do such a thing.
Me: "Pepino... were you puking because you're bulimic?"
Pepino: "Why would you ask me that?"
Me: "The instructor pulled me aside to tell me. It's ok if you are, you don't have to be ashamed."
Pepino: "It's none of your business."
Uh oh, angry Pepino. The rest of the ride home is silent. We get to my house. I take my tight-black-dress wearing self to the front door, alone, as he drives off. A few days later, I call Pepino. No answer. What a rude bulimic.
About a week later, I get this email:
Dear Michelle,
I'm sorry I was not able to answer your question in the car. Yes, I have a problem. I hope that doesn't change how you feel about me. I'm sorry."
I respond:
Dear Pepino,
I really liked you before the instructor told me. It came as a surprise, but I was willing to work through it, with you, if you wanted to. I did not, however, like that you were a rude monkey. I cant date a man whose breath smells like puke. Nor can I, a woman who eats really well, date a man who cannot eat without puking. It's too bad cuz you were hot. Happy Purging."
Lesson Learned:
Spicy men may be hot, but they may cause upset-stomach, indigestion, diarrhea, etc. Always carry Pepto, Rolaids, or Milk of Magnisia with you. It will come in handy.
You Oughtta Know!
After sharing a few of my dates with ya'll, I find myself explaining how I met these men, time and time again.
Basically, I'm a pervert. I have no shame, no conscience, and I see no wrong in walking up to a man and telling him that I'd like to see his pants on the floor in my bedroom.
I don't advise everyone to use my techniques. To be so honest, crass, and forward can only be pulled off by someone extremely confident. The weak at heart and insecure need not try.
"How, Meesh, HOW is it possible for you to walk up to a man and say such things?" I honestly don't fear rejection. What's the worst a man can say? "No?" Or "Get away from me you hairy banshee?" I've heard worse things in my life. Rejection does not scare me, it motivates me. It makes me think of better pick up lines in the middle of the night, it makes me walk up to more attractive men, and it gives me the gusto needed to pull off my amazing pick up lines.
So, next time you find yourself admiring a man from afar, feel free to use one of my many ingenious lines...
- Hi. I like your face. It suits your sexy bodyyyyyy.
- Hey Baby, Do you like changing diapers? Cuz I wanna give you a child!
- I think I've seen you before. Oh! That's right, you look just like the guy I fantasize about when my boyfriend kisses me.
- Don't think I didn't notice what you just did. Stop undressing me with your eyes or I'm going to have to charge you.
- Wait a minute, wait a minute, WAIT ONE MINUTE MISTER.... did you just pelvic thrust at me? No? Oh, just wishful thinking on my part.
- I think you're delicious. Prove me wrong.
- Your smile makes me want to rip my clothes off. There you go smiling again. Oops, there goes my shirt.
For the less brave:
- Hi.
But in all seriousness, the key to meeting men and going on multiple bad dates is to be captivating. No man I've ever gone on a date with will forget me. I know what you're thinking, it's those beautiful Persian eyes, the badonk-a-donk that makes most men cry, but no. The fact is, I'm not afraid of what he thinks. I know what I have to offer, I know what I'm worth, and if I want a man, I'll get it. If the dates are bad, I'll blog about it.
Basically, I'm a pervert. I have no shame, no conscience, and I see no wrong in walking up to a man and telling him that I'd like to see his pants on the floor in my bedroom.
I don't advise everyone to use my techniques. To be so honest, crass, and forward can only be pulled off by someone extremely confident. The weak at heart and insecure need not try.
"How, Meesh, HOW is it possible for you to walk up to a man and say such things?" I honestly don't fear rejection. What's the worst a man can say? "No?" Or "Get away from me you hairy banshee?" I've heard worse things in my life. Rejection does not scare me, it motivates me. It makes me think of better pick up lines in the middle of the night, it makes me walk up to more attractive men, and it gives me the gusto needed to pull off my amazing pick up lines.
So, next time you find yourself admiring a man from afar, feel free to use one of my many ingenious lines...
- Hi. I like your face. It suits your sexy bodyyyyyy.
- Hey Baby, Do you like changing diapers? Cuz I wanna give you a child!
- I think I've seen you before. Oh! That's right, you look just like the guy I fantasize about when my boyfriend kisses me.
- Don't think I didn't notice what you just did. Stop undressing me with your eyes or I'm going to have to charge you.
- Wait a minute, wait a minute, WAIT ONE MINUTE MISTER.... did you just pelvic thrust at me? No? Oh, just wishful thinking on my part.
- I think you're delicious. Prove me wrong.
- Your smile makes me want to rip my clothes off. There you go smiling again. Oops, there goes my shirt.
For the less brave:
- Hi.
But in all seriousness, the key to meeting men and going on multiple bad dates is to be captivating. No man I've ever gone on a date with will forget me. I know what you're thinking, it's those beautiful Persian eyes, the badonk-a-donk that makes most men cry, but no. The fact is, I'm not afraid of what he thinks. I know what I have to offer, I know what I'm worth, and if I want a man, I'll get it. If the dates are bad, I'll blog about it.
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