Coming Soon!!! I’ve now been single for nearly a year and a half. That’s a good solid run of not having to deal with any nagging, frustrations, ex-boyfriends, overly expensive meals, physical abuse, and sacrificing my personal happiness to participate in excruciating events that I try to avoid by all means. A good part of me feels as if this has been the best year and a half of my life. To the extreme, I purposely took myself off the market and vowed to stay single for the rest of my life. However, I’ve sort of been torn as to whether or not I would like to be in the market for another girlfriend in the near future.

As much as I’ve tried to avoid any potentially relationship threatening situations, I have to admit that I am still at least attracted to other females. On occasion, I do feel that sort of loneliness that comes with being unattached. Being as I live right next door to a beauty salon, I do encounter several attractive women on a daily basis. In fact, I would say that I see dozens of women every day that I find, at least, moderately physically attractive.

On very slight occasion, I will see a woman who strikes my interest as potentially more prosperous other than physical attraction. However, I never speak to these women. I’m not the type of person who can simply walk up to a girl who I do not even know and immediately start speaking to her about bullshit that I think is fascinating; I do not have an array of corny pick-up lines. Being as I do not have the brute physical strength necessary to keep a woman tied up in my closet with tape over her mouth, I am required to broaden my search for somebody who has more appeal than just the physical attributes. One false move and it could be me tied up in a closet with tape over my mouth.

Looks wise, I am not into the standard typical pretty white girl. On a scale of 1 to 10, based strictly on looks, I give the following: Carrie Underwood, Katy Perry, and Taylor Swift all a 2—at best. If I walked directly past any of these three, I would not even notice. Despite the fact that they are featured on every single tabloid cover in America, and I’ve seen thousands of photos of all three of them, I could not identify any of them in another photo right now. For all I know, I have met all three of them. Those three girls look exactly like everybody else and have no astounding features that noticeably stand out. To me, that’s a squeaky clean polished fabricated image that has no appeal whatsoever.

On the other hand, looks wise, I’m not all that great either. I do not have any extraordinary features and completely plain looking. There is nothing about my physical appearance that stands out, I do not have a wild hair style, no tattoos, and I pretty much only wear basic ordinary regular clothing styles—nothing too outlandish. Unfortunately, the women I find most attractive have no interest in me whatsoever. The women who model themselves after Carrie Underwood have no interest in me either. For that matter, women period have no interest in me at all.

Some (many) people think that I am gay. I do not understand why anybody would think this other than the fact that I am skinny. Furthermore, I have noticed in the media that skinny guys are often portrayed as homosexuals and vice-versa. I do spark the interest of a lot of gay men, fat gay men at that. In fact, that’s about all I attract these days is fat gay men (most fat gay men have no interest in me either). Unfortunately, I am not gay, and all attempts to convert me have failed. While I do have lots of gay friends and have frequently taken heat for standing up for gay rights, simply put, I do not have the attraction to other men.

On the contrary, as much as most girly girls annoy the fucking piss out of me, physically, I am attracted to many of them. In fact, I spend a significant portion of my time checking out other women—indulging in sexual fantasies while not even looking at them, simply passing them on the street or on the bus is good enough. But, if one of them ever speak to me, I immediately get frustrated and wish they would leave me alone; more than three sentences of conversation constitutes as “bothering me.” Therefore, I could never engage even in casual sex with these types of women because I cannot stand talking to them for any longer than two minutes.

Sometimes, when I’m desperate, I will talk to people who are annoying as fuck. People have sat and talked to me relentlessly about senseless bullshit that I will be in 100% disagreement with; I will sit there and tolerate it periodically just with hopes she’ll stop talking and move on to something more enjoyable. This rarely happens though. Furthermore, I am unable to provide any response that these people that would find appealing. To make matters even worse, I hate the song “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey so much that whenever it comes on, I am immediately addled and have to leave.

But, it is those situations (the ones where I find myself in an unsettling conversation with an incompatible female) why I am thinking perhaps life might be better if I had a girlfriend. Because, if I were attached, I would not have to sit anywhere and listen to dumbass stupid senseless neurotic bullshit just to try and get laid (mainly just to go home and jack off thinking what could and should have been if either A. she shut the fuck up for five minutes, B. I actually brought something intelligent to the conversation, C. if bars in Milwaukee would stop playing that fucking Journey song, D. if these hoes would recognize that Journey fucking sucks). Also, if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t even have to go to these shitty ass places that play Journey*.

*That is speaking of my ideal most 100% compatible girlfriend in which I’ve never had. My last girlfriend periodically dragged me out to karaoke bars where everybody sang that stupid song.

Despite the fact that I personally am a walking/talking deal breaker myself, I have numerous deal breakers of my own. Again, I have been single for over a year and a half, and have vowed to stay single for life. But, I have decided that I am only seeking that one perfect relationship. The #1 deal breaker for me is liking Journey. If a woman blatantly tells me that she likes Journey, I will not even make any attempt to do anything other than tolerate her. If a girl informs me that Journey is one of her all-time favorite bands, I won’t even jerk it thinking about her, regardless of what she looks like. I would rather masturbate to a fat, nasty, dead woman infested with flies than any extravagantly dressed supposedly sexy female singing “Don’t Stop Believing” at a karaoke bar.

One evening, I turned down two threesomes in the same night (it should also be noted that these are the only two threesomes that I have been offered in the past two years; the last one was two 18 year old girls in Asheville when I was still with Jennifer Triolo; I still view that as a missed opportunity and totally regret squandering that definite wonderful night of lifetime memories). I was not even planning on going out that night, had worked 16 hours, and was talked into to going out for a drink after work; mind you I was poorly dressed, carrying around a backpack and a coffee mug). We went to this bar, suggested playing pool, I put money in the pool table, and awaited for my friends who never showed up. Some girl sitting by the pool table started hitting on me, offered what I considered ridiculous compliments, and soon she was sitting on my lap—her friend came over and joined in on the fun.

Right at the time I had overcame any sort of nervousness, and things were beginning to heat up, guess what happened? Fucking shity ass God damn mother fucking piece of shit “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey came on. These two miserable, low-down, good-for-nothing sluts not only sang it out loud, but expected me to sing along with them. It totally fucked up my concentration. Not only was I denied a threesome with two formerly attractive women, I could not even whack off thinking about them when I arrived home because of that fucking shitty ass song.

I fucking hate Journey! I fucking hate every single thing about them. I hate the sound of Steve Perry’s sissy voice, I hate their pussy ass instrumentation, and I sure as fuck hate everything they represent. Steve Perry is a grown-up version of Justin Bieber; Journey was the original Nickelback (I fucking hate Nickelback—more on that later); Journey is even wimpier than Michael Bolton and Kenny G., because they instill Michael Bolton like elements in what they portray to be hard rock. Journey is the definition of a brainless corporate sell-out. Super huge fans of Journey more than likely rally against everything I stand for.

I also hate coleslaw. I fucking can’t even stand looking at coleslaw. When people ask if I have any allergies, I tell them I am allergic to coleslaw. Seriously, I have to be allergic to coleslaw because I get sick simply looking at it. I don’t know what the fuck would happen if I ever ate the shit. In fact, and sadly, I am being 100% dead serious; in all honesty, I would eat a dead skunk out of the road before I would eat coleslaw. Do you know how severe of a dilemma that is? The #1 most grotesque thing that I would never eat, they actually serve in restaurants. People argue with me over this shit, unacceptable of the notion that I detest coleslaw as if it is some abnormal oddity. People will rattle off 29 different things they find disgusting with various foods… they ask my worst food, I reply coleslaw, and I’m immediately interrogated; 876,438 people have insisted that I have to try their coleslaw sometime; 196,392 people have claimed that KFC has exceptional coleslaw (immediate deal breaker). When I meet somebody who also hates coleslaw, I am immediately drawn to that person, and regard that person as a friend. If a woman stood up for me during an altercation in which hundreds of coleslaw fans have ganged up on, I would love her unconditionally for life.

What I despise even worse than coleslaw and Journey: I hate with an extreme passion, TV. I do not have a TV, and if somebody awarded me a 5 million dollar shopping spree, I still wouldn’t have a TV. I don’t watch TV shows on the internet, and I don’t rent TV shows on DVD, and I don’t do TV shows period. The worst: I hate ALL reality TV shows, I hate ALL pro-Republican cockfaces who have been handed their own programs (like Bill O’Rielley (why are there no Anarchic-Communists TV shows?), I hate commercials, I hate American Idol, Dancing With the Stars, and that kind of shit, and I hate shows that depicts some fat piece of shit eating huge meals—who the fuck wants to watch some fat lardass eat a 7 pound hamburger? Movies are fine, but for the most part, I loathe every aspect about television, and detest its effect on society even worse (I have recently stated that I have overheard my last Jersey Shore conversation in Milwaukee—next time, I’m leaving immediately). Don’t Trust the B in the Apartment Next Door (or whatever the fuck it’s called) looks the dumbest of anything I’ve ever seen (simply seeing ads for that show makes me want to vomit).

It is a huge moral dilemma to absolutely despise Journey, coleslaw, and TV. What this means, is that as of 2012, the amount of women that could actually qualify as a potential suitor is limited to less than 3%. Also, I couldn’t ever date a Republican, even though I have many friends and family members who are Republicans. However, I have never met a Republican that didn’t own a TV and hate Journey like I do. Therefore, factoring in Republicans, the dwindling percentage of potential suitors is unscathed. Those three aspects that have unwillingly come to define me as an individual have made it nearly impossible for me to succeed.

Aside from all those obvious drawbacks that prevent from ever finding true love, I have numerous other aspects too. I carry excessive baggage, and I’m not referring to the ex or baby’s mama type of baggage either (I do not have any children; no communication with any exes). The problem is that I have been in so many predicaments; that it would be impossible for me to ever fully resolve them. Therefore, they have mounted past the level of tolerability and my record is severely blemished as a result. I did, however, have one ex put a damper on my credit, and my credit report is absolutely horrendous despite the fact that I do not own anything.

On that note: I do not own anything. I live in a bedroom of a friend’s apartment. Up until recently, I did not even have a bed and just purchased one last week (and had to carry it home on foot—a queen size mattress, nearly two miles). Stocks that I own—none. Most women prefer a man who owns his own home and a lot of material possessions; therefore, most women do not like me. I have a laptop computer, an mp3 player, some nice headphones, and some clothes…that’s it. I do own a car, but as of now, I am not permitted to drive it.

Also, some claim that I am a tad bit on the skinny side. Most women prefer men who are muscular and buff meatheads. Many women even seem to prefer fat, sloppy, overweight, and un-toned while dressing in sloppy baggy dress attire. A significant amount of women (pretty much all of them) would never want to date me because of my smallish frame. To make matters even worse, I am attracted to tall women, bitchy women, lean women, and women with an obvious violent streak. None of these women are attracted to me because too many believe in the cliché that the man should be dominant, and therefore only seek out guys bigger than they are. I’ve heard stories about women who prefer submissive guys, but I’ve never seen any of them—none of them live in Milwaukee.

That brings us to Milwaukee. I have a love/hate relationship with this city. I moved here for a girl and got dumped within four months after moving. However, I’ve stayed here—way longer than I ever expected. There is enough here for me to like the place, and for the most part it is OK. But, I feel that I do not fit in here, there is way too much Journey/mainstream culture (especially after coming from Asheville & Austin where most people despise that shit), and the douchy bro and ditzy ho population is approaching dangerous levels (probably around 85% in some areas, which has decimated the arts/music/independent thinking population). On the other hand, my living situation is fine, rent is cheap, I’ve made a few friends, there are a couple cool parts of town, and I have been able to complete a couple writing projects. On that note, because I‘ve never committed myself to staying in Milwaukee permanently, I have refrained from searching for a girlfriend and convinced myself that I do not like any of them anyway.

Most women prefer a man who drives; who will pick her up, and drive everywhere. This used to be me, but not anymore. My license is suspended and I can’t drive. Why? You ask? Because I moved from apartment #1 to apartment #4, that’s why. When I moved, I did not get my mail. While I wasn’t receiving mail, I was pulled over twice in the same week—once for having suspended tags for excessive parking tickets, once because my tail light went out. Neither time had I a proof of insurance card because it never arrived in the mail. When it finally was delivered, I presented it to the court, and the case was dismissed. However, only one of the dismissals was entered, not both.

I went to court over to resolve the issue…twice in the same day. The first hearing defined my life in a nutshell. The judge (a man) dismissed everybody else’s cases throughout the entire day. There were also two women in the court room, the first simply announced the case #: “Case #556421” and after the person approached the judge, she refrained from speaking. The 2nd woman, who never spoke during anybody else’s trial, simply told the defendant where to go after the charges were dropped. When I approached the bench, the judge did not say a single word to me, and the two women ganged up on me. Woman #2 immediately became hostile with me and claimed she needed an updated address before I could even resolve my case. The first woman denied me any permission to even speak until after I paid my fees + reinstatement fees and concluded the papers that documented the case had been previously dismissed were invalid—without even looking at them. Everybody else was permitted the option to file to re-open for a small fee of $20, which is what I wished to do. The two women declared that I could not—that I had to pay $150 for nothing. I still have not paid this amount and refuse to; they can keep my driver’s license.

The 2nd appearance at a different courtroom only produced similar results. Everybody else was permitted to enter a plea of either “guilty”, “not-guilty”, or “no-contest.” If they were to plea “not-guilty,” then they would have to go back into this other room and speak to somebody. If they had defaulted, then the judge insisted he would need legitimate reason why he/she defaulted and a legitimate defense to dispute the allegations (not even pay the small $20 fee). This was what I wanted because I had defaulted: 1.) Because I had the case dismissed already; 2.) Because I never received any letter stating I was under any violation. For my defense, I was planning to present my insurance card that proved that I had not committed any crime. However, I wasn’t given these options like everybody else. Before I could enter a plea, he asked if I had it taken care of these issues, then instantly resorted to scolding me. He then stated, unprovoked without me even speaking, “You need to get this straightened out and pay the fines. I don’t care if you think you owe the money or not, you have to do what they say in order to make them satisfied.” The case was adjourned until June 6th.

I had surrendered and vowed to take care of these issues with my state taxes, which was to be a check for $530. However, instead of getting a check, I was awarded a letter attached with a bill. Back in 2008 (my 2007 taxes), I was working two jobs and enrolled 21 credit hours at school because I was graduating in June and needed to take an extra class to graduate. One of my W-2’s disappeared, and because I wasn’t earning prestigious dollar figures, I assumed I was only decreasing my tax return. However, I was audited, and the company in which I was employed claimed that they only took out $38 the entire year in taxes.

Unfortunately, I had no way to prove any of this. By the time they audited me, I had moved from Cincinnati, OH to Austin, TX then to Asheville, NC. Not only that, in-between Austin and Asheville, my car was totaled with everything I owned inside of it. I was in a transitional period because the girl I had moved to Austin with dumped me and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I was working a job delivering dead people from the embalming place to various funeral homes and nothing full-time. After we broke up, I was going to temporarily return to Cincinnati, straighten out some mishaps regarding my degree, then return to Austin. But, after the car was totaled, I had to buy a cheap piece of shit and move to Asheville where I worked at a convenience store.

Working at a convenience store, right when the economy pretty much collapsed, and after all the other shit I had just went through, was not the ideal time to get audited for services provided by the Bush Administration. They claimed I owed them $1200, which I could not prove.

Of that $1200, I had already paid them $2100, including an incident last June 1st when the IRS hi-jacked my bank account and cleaned out both my checking and savings without telling me beforehand—left me with negative $100 on the 1st of a month. After all that, they not only took my $530 in state taxes (meaning I’ve paid over $2600 for a $1200 debt) and claim that I still owe $1069 of the $1200.

On that note, I hate the government, the state, the United States, the church, the TV, the oil industry, the banks, capitalism, Carrie Underwood, Journey, commentators, old bitches who get offended by cuss words, people who protest abortion and preach freedom, all wars and people who support them, coleslaw, all forms of racism, sexism, oppression, corporate greed…this list could go on for days. So, with all of this working against me, I toyed with the crazy notion to maybe shop around for another girlfriend soon.

Shopping for a girlfriend is similar to shopping for a car. It is very important to conduct extensive research and shop around for great deals. Often, it may be necessary to ask other people about their girlfriends, the same way you inquire about their vehicles, because it may be beneficial to know where to shop. I asked several random people about their girlfriends, where they found her, how much they had to pay, whether or not they had to produce a down payment with monthly financing, about upkeep and maintenance, and any problems she may be encountering.

Ideally, everybody would be able to purchase the exact vehicle he/she wanted. However, budget sometimes has a negative impact on what a person chooses and limits the amount of possibilities. Girlfriend shopping presents similar obstacles. I knew that while shopping for a new girlfriend, I had to keep my own budget in mind. Because I had a shitty job coupled with a bad credit score, that reduced the amount of options I could realistically shop for. But, I didn’t want to just settle with another crack head either.

Just like with purchasing a new vehicle, one must consider the available options the purchase comes equipped with, such as air conditioning, power steering, personal navigation, or a nice ashtray. Girlfriends such as crackheads have no options whatsoever, end up having high interest rates, and the heater never works right. However, I knew that obtaining a girlfriend endowed with all of the latest options would be more than I could ever afford.

Occasionally, one has to search for a used car. Once a person reaches a certain age, normally around the age of 13, most girlfriends qualify as used. However, it is still best to have one with low miles, unless it is a nice Japanese model that lasts forever. Sometimes it is best to consult with the Girlfriendfax History Report for a complete in-depth analysis report to see exactly where your potential girlfriend has been. Because, as we all know, people do strange things with their girlfriends.

Many cars depreciate in value the moment you drive them off the lot. Girlfriends are the exact same way. They appear like a wonderful deal at first, but the moment you drive her away, she is completely useless. And just like a lease, sometimes you can be stuck with this useless girlfriend for up to 5 years. Furthermore, after the lease is up, it may be difficult to re-sell her, and unlike that bad Hyundai, your life is completely fucked.

Some girlfriends come with a salvaged title. It is risky obtaining a girlfriend with a salvage title, but it could prove to be an awesome bargain. Myself, I come equipped with a salvaged title—so this isn’t something that would necessarily negate me from making the purchase. It is just important to examine under the hood and be certain that she is off the booze, the drugs, and inquire how much longer she will be on parole. One person I knew struck a bargain with his wife; she had served a 6 year sentence, and by the time he found her she was still on parole. In order to prevent going back to prison for parole violation, she was mild mannered and well-behaved. Although her Girlfriendfax History Report indicated that she had chopped up her last boyfriend with an axe because he threatened to liquidate the meth lab, during the past 6 years she had only slept with women (no men) while locked up in the joint; and one of them (out of 9) was hot.

Most importantly, you want to purchase a vehicle that defines you as a person. Nobody wants to be riding around town in some old jalopy he/she is ashamed to be seen in. While shopping for a new girlfriend, you may have to ask yourself: “Would I be ashamed to be seen in public with this person?” Or, “does this person fit my image?” I currently own a tannish beige Toyota Camry that does not fit my image at all, and I really do not want a girlfriend that conforms to the image of the Camry. The Camry was a good deal, and I may have to seek a similar value with the girlfriend. I assumed the Camry would be low-key, but my license are still suspended; an ugly woman will more than likely cheat on me with a relative.

Some vehicles are expensive to insure. Furthermore, having an ornamented sporty vehicle presents the temptation to violate ethical standards. I, personally, have never owned a motorcycle for this very reason. Every single car I have ever owned, I have buried the speedometer, and have regularly been spotted travelling at speeds exceeding 100 mph. If I had a motorcycle capable of exceeding 200 mph; that would either be the end of me or my driver’s license (which are gone anyway). Have to think, if I had some sex crazed illuminated death defying girlfriend, you may never see me again. Sadly, I am somewhat in the market for this. I already do not have insurance—medical, dental, automobile, home owner’s, life…no insurance period. So, I don’t give a fuck how much it costs to insure. That is not a concern for me.

Some people are real degenerate assholes with fucking idiotic priorities and concern themselves with petty stupid bullshit that is not that important. A prime example of complete piece of shit who does something like this is myself. In a car, the stereo is far more important than the radiator. With a girlfriend, the stereo is important as well, and will be the primary thing I will look for. I view a girl with no interest in music the same way I view a vehicle with an old shitty cassette player. If a car doesn’t at least have, at bare minimum, a CD player, I won’t drive the mother fucker.

As stated, I am constantly in a predicament. Therefore, I have to shop for a girlfriend that is suitable to my environment, can handle the pressure, and ensure that I feel safe under adverse conditions. This is similar to how a person who lives on top of a snowy mountain may only wish to purchase a 4 x 4. I need a 4 x 4. A car with shitty ass tires without anti-lock brakes would only go soaring off of a cliff; and if she is expensive to insure or completely neurotic, my Boyfriendfax History Report might indicate a few more blemishes as a result. Plus, I can’t be having no bitch turning me in to the cops for something I didn’t even do.

Neurotic is something very important to me. However, I have never in my life had a girlfriend who was not neurotic and apparently not a very thrifty shopper when seeking this trait out. But, I am on the skinny side. Furthermore, I have never pursued my own girlfriend ever in my life. That said, all I have ever been with are women who have aggressively approached me; and let’s face it, you would have to be fairly neurotic to ever have even the slightest remote interest in me. It is essential for me to have a girlfriend who isn’t extremely neurotic because of my size; meaning, most girls can kick my ass in a fight. An extremely neurotic woman will more than likely cause physical damage and that does coincide well with the fact that I do not have health insurance. Plus, I have a difficult time saying no, and neurotic women are able to talk me into doing things that I do not ever want to do by means of physical force, verbal abuse, or guilt trips…such as making me attend somebody’s wedding or go shopping for a new bookshelf (that I am supposed to pay half for even though I do not want the damn thing), instead of seeing a concert.

Since I am not the overly aggressive type, approachability is a key factor for me to consider. If a woman insists on a guy delving through a mound of obstacles just to speak to her, than she is not for me. Simply put, I do not meet the requirements necessary to fulfill that obligation and would have to categorize that aspect along the same lines as requiring perfect credit to lease a Cadillac. Furthermore, I’m such a pathetic piece of shit, I require her to at least speak to me first…or at least acknowledge my existence and stand in the general vicinity. All a woman has to do is speak first, and then I am good at keeping the conversation going. On the other hand, because I am a pussy and have a hard time saying no, all a desperate neurotic woman has to do is speak and more than likely she will have the opportunity to get laid. My Boyfriendfax History Report contains a couple dreadful dishonors; but fortunately I am ugly enough to where it is not all that disastrous.

I actually prefer a woman with bad habits. Admittedly, I am super attracted to women who wear fitness apparel. Unfortunately, I smoke, and most of the times when I see these sultry hot women, they jog right by me while I am smoking a cigarette. I think to myself how hot they look and delve into some sort of erotic fantasy; she more than likely thinks to herself how gross I am because I smoke and delves into some shitty ass scenario involving pounding my face into a brick wall for blowing smoke near her. To be honest, I’m scared of girls. That said, for contradiction #88,226 in my quest for a girlfriend, I would prefer a woman who drinks, smokes, and heavy drug usage is not that bad of a thing for me- even though these aspects tend to make a girl more neurotic and violent. For contradiction #88,227, I am trying to quit smoking, do not smoke that much, do not drink that much, and only smoke pot on slight occasion. I’ve been drunk too many times to qualify as a non-drinker, don’t drink nearly enough to be considered an alcoholic, and the frequency I smoke weed (about once every couple months) is just enough to turn off goody goodies who despise drug usage, and not nearly enough to attract the bad girls who I am most attracted to. I can’t decide if I should start smoking weed more often, or give it up altogether and re-evaluate everything I’ve stood for.

As far as the Girlfriendfax History Report is concerned, ex-boyfriends should be previous owners, and nothing more, in order for me to consider seriously. There have been cases where exes and currents get along perfectly fine without drama, but that has never been the case with me. In my experiences, it is similar to a previous owner signing off on the title, and then constantly showing up mysteriously, wishing to drive the car again, or wanting to buy it back. Then why the fuck did you even sell the car in the first place? I don’t know why some of these people even broke up in the first place. Simple rule of thumb, if you’re still lingering around with your ex and having a difficult time letting go and moving on, then go back and try to work things out again. In most cases, the exes are losers anyway, yet she goes back to him anyway; both proving that she is neurotic while further emphasizing that I am an even bigger loser.

Having a bunch of loser guys constantly lurking around is a turn-off as well. Whenever I go out with a woman, I don’t kiss and hug a bunch of other girls that I claim are just friends; and then allow them to interrupt the entire evening while we are attempting to get to know each other; a potential love affair. It’s fine if you have a bunch of guy friends, even if they are losers; but there comes a time when you have to decide whether to get rid of them for the evening or simply hang out with them instead. There is nothing worse than going out with a girl and having to deal with a bunch of guys; I don’t, I will just leave and go somewhere else—unscathed, and that’ll be the end of that.

Even less attractive than a bunch of loser guys hanging around in person, is anybody talking excessively on a cell phone. Sometimes, on the way to work, I keep track of all how many women I see in a day that I would like to get next to, with my goal being 10 by the time I get to work. However, I have a couple discrepancies that discount an otherwise pretty girl. If she is walking with a guy, then she doesn’t count (morals; I don’t even want to consider being a home wrecker if the guy seems cool/cleanliness; if the guy is douche, I sure as shit don’t want any of his sloppy seconds). The other automatic disqualification is if she is talking on her cell phone. To me, that’s the least sexy pose imaginable…no matter what other aspects are working, seeing a girl talking loudly on her phone in public is a major turn-off.

Being as a significant amount of my so-called problems are financially related, it may seem that it is my goal to pursue a relationship with a rich woman. Unfortunately, this is not the case. To begin, I am not the type of person who can simply sponge off of a woman and give nothing in return. If a woman paid all my debts and even financed a better future for me, I could never repay because I bring nothing to the table worthy of that sort of kindness. In addition, women (especially in Milwaukee) prefer men to make more money than they (many of them dress the way they do simply for the money). If a woman already has a ton of money, she will want nothing to do with me because I make less than her. Finally, if she has a good high paying job, it might mean that she works for a corporation in which I have boycotted; life is extremely difficult as an Anarchic-Communist living in America.

Automobile consumers often purchase vehicles from the junkyard and fix them up—sort of as an investment. I do not have the ability to do this. Furthermore, some people might regard me as a car from the junkyard that needs fixing up. However, for my age, I do not appear to have that much wear and tear. Some people purchase broken down vehicles and sell them out for parts. Living in Milwaukee, I have to be weary of this because this is the city in which Jeffrey Dahmer once resided; women who approach me are even more neurotic than he was.

Personality is a huge issue with me, even though I personally do not have any personality whatsoever. I would prefer a woman to have a unique personality; if that happens, then appearance takes care of itself. What I mean by personality is that I enjoy conversation that is void of typical musings. If a woman thinks differently than the so-called average man, has unconventional wisdom, creative, and able to figure out things on her own, then that is who I wish to meet. It’s even better if she has tremendous tits and a great set of legs.

Contradiction #16: Joking around about things that are downright tasteless is absolutely wrong! It’s horrendous and disgusting. In real life, I would never say anything downright mean and crude to a person in a tactless manner. However, in a setting amongst friends, I will laugh and joke about the most tasteless topics possible. The reason I find this amusing is because I know it is wrong and that is what makes it funny. I am not laughing at the handicapped retard attempting to ride down a log flume in his wheelchair; it was a funny to me because it was so wrong and the immorality is what’s funny. My ideal suitor should get this or either: A.) She is going to be offended by my sense of humor or B.) She is headed to prison because she actually commits the acts that I joke about in real life.

Contradiction #24: Intelligence is a requirement for me; I am stupid. I prefer a woman with good head on her shoulders and makes sound rational decisions; I haven’t made a smart decision in years (maybe never, but I’m sure I could come up with one if I thought hard enough; I’m too stupid to think of one). I am most attracted to women who possess a great deal of knowledge and well educated; I have a degree in English, yet I suck at grammar and my knowledge of authors is not too great either. I base intelligence on creativity and ingenuity, the ability resolve problems and devise theories without assistance; I devise theories, but they are not relevant to anything—they’re useless. All of this intellect is even better if she has great tits and a nice set of legs; I am flat-chested and have a little dick.

It is very important to have unique qualities because I do not fraternize with cliché participants. If a woman refuses to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day, then I will automatically like her—even if she’s only not wearing green because she is bed ridden with leukemia. You have to do this! Actually, no you don’t, and I’m not going to just because you said. I prefer women who think differently than the perceived commonly accepted beliefs; I like people who are not easily impressed and who do not believe every single thing they hear. It is better to challenge the norm before merely conforming to it based on the influence of the masses.

There is something I refer to as a punk image and I prefer women who have this image. However, there is natural punk image and purchased punk image and I prefer natural. Shopping at Hot Topic, having numerous tattoos, and a wild haircut does not automatically make a person a punk—not these days, they are too common. Furthermore, finding significant shock value in mainstream subjects is a sure sign of not being punk at all—thinking The B--- in the Other Apartment is original, wild, crazy, or any of that is not punk; there exist people with tattoos and dress apparel from Hot Topic find that show just nuts (it’s not.) It easy to differentiate the sincere punks (who probably despised every band on the past several Warped Tours) from the douchy faces with no edge whatsoever sporting dyed green hair (green hair was punk up to about 1993, not 2012). I require an edge, even though I do not have one personally. Maybe it is because opposite attracts and I am looking for somebody who is the opposite of me—somebody cool, somebody intelligent, somebody brilliant, somebody beautiful, though I prefer she not have a huge cock.

Although I support people believing in anything they wish to believe in, and I’m all for equality and political righteousness, I am not attracted, in the slightest least bit, girls who participate in rituals such as a “slut walk” (FEMEN is questionable as well). What you claim to stand for is fine, but I have to question both the sincerity of it and the way these girls go about their form of protest. Girls claim to dress in “slutty” attire and march down the street, flaunting their “sexiness”, to protest any notion that suggests these outfits promote rape.

Here’s my deal. First of all, in order to even participate, you have to at least know what “slutty” attire consists of; if you are unaware that you are behaving as a “slut” then you would be clueless as what to wear to this event. Secondly, this also means that you had have purchased these articles of clothing and have access to them. Which also means, that somewhere along the lines, you purchased clothing you knew in advance was considered “slutty.” I have no problem whatsoever with a girl wearing “slutty” clothing if she is being true to herself and simply acknowledges she enjoys the sexual attention that accompanies dressing in this fashion. However, these girls are attempting to claim otherwise, and I’m simply not buying it. Or, if a girl claims, “yes, I’m a slut, a porn star, I’m getting laid tonight, and tomorrow, and 226 times this week,” I am totally cool with that. In fact, I admire that—at least she is honest which is a #1 positive trait; rather than deceptive which is the top few negative traits (if you say this, but really mean something else, you’re ugly in my opinion—and I don’t give a fuck how your hair looks, how much you’ve worked out, or how short your skirt is.)

Another requirement is to flaunt your “sexiness.” To even participate in this is an act of arrogance. I have never in my life suggested that I was so sexy that I could participate in events in which sexiness is required. Any woman who does this, her sexiness is self-proclaimed and nothing more. Hate to burst her bubble, but it’s doubtful that you are nearly as sexy as you think you are. And if you are the self-proclaimed sexy, then that means that you scored poorly in every other aspect; that 83% of your conversation topics is either about your hair, your outfit, or the brainless tabloid celebrity whom you’ve modeled yourself after.

Then comes the topic of rape. By all means, I feel rape is wrong, rapists deserve the most horrendous treatment imaginable, and I could never rape a woman (even if I wanted to, it is out of the question because most girls can kick my ass). But, most of these girls who dress in “slutty” attire by choice are usually prancing around with fat douchy bros with zero sex appeal whatsoever. Therefore, I have to say that if one of these chicks were to get raped on the street, it would be a major improvement over the fat douchy bro who she is going to have sex with later in the evening.

I have concluded that most of the women who dress this way (especially in winter sub-zero weather) and participate in these so-called protests only do so because they are desperately starved for attention. They think that by dressing slutty, they are entitled to anything they want without having to put forth any effort; and the dipshit male who falls for this shit gets nothing. Girls think that if their skirt is short enough, they will get free drinks; if they show enough cleavage, people will allow them to cut in line; if their ass is tight enough, they can talk as loudly and rudely as they please to their other bimbo girlfriends about meaningless bullshit on their cell phones and people will tolerate it.

If a woman is desperately starved for attention, I could never date her. When I see these women walking down the street, I do not even acknowledge their existence, refuse to even look up at them, and will walk away in mid-sentence if they start talking to me. It will never work. Because, contradiction #4 in my life: I am not starved for attention in the slightest least bit. In fact, I attempt to deter it. However, it seems I am constantly the focal point of attention despite the fact that I do nothing to try and attain it. People stare at me, and I don’t even do anything unusual; I dress and look completely normal.

Contradiction #6,432: As much as I ignore those girls, and the fact that I never speak to them—I have masturbated thinking about them. Gross!

Music inspires me. Music inspires to become such a bad person, that I in turn become a more interesting individual.

Contradiction #1,682:

This began today, May 28th, 2012. While doctoring up my 1986 Customer Documentary story, I decided to use this image that I found on google search (“Happy White Girl Shopping”) as sort of an ironic joke, making fun of the image, for the conclusion of the entire story. However, after I was finished, I did not close my browser and this image had been on my computer all day and I have been staring at this image all day. I’m not certain, but I think I might like this girl now, or I might not her, or I am in love with her, or I think she is dangerous. Regardless, she has become an issue that I have struggled with in my own mind.

Now, let’s examine these other three—celebrities, so to say. These are people that I have frequently heard others claim are “hot” or something to that degree. However, I do not see the attraction.

Image #1 is Carrie Underwood. For me, she represents the polished image with no edge whatsoever. People have claimed that they can tell that I am into music just by looking at me. Whatever, this is their opinion, not mine—I don’t see it with me either. I can, however, tell if somebody is into music just by looking at them. Carrie Underwood does not have this image at all. And what’s most sad about it, she is supposedly a musician. If Carrie Underwood came into City Market while I was getting coffee, I would not even notice her; I would just assume she was just some other person in there. She definitely would NOT be a standout, and not nearly as hot as the girls employed there, let alone the customers.

Image #2 is Katy Perry. This is the definition of purchased punk image. Here is a girl trying too hard to be something she is not, and obviously desperately trying to garner attention. In the sexiest pose possible, scantily dressed while rubbing her pussy, she is still not that hot. Put those exact same clothes on 500 other women and watch them rub her pussy the way Katy Perry is, my guess is 400 of them would look hotter than Katy Perry. In fact, that’s all I see in this picture—the clothes and the hand on the crotch. Her body is no different than anybody else’s, her face, like Carrie Underwood, has no edge, and if I want to see a woman rub her crotch and actually look sexy doing so, then I will simply visit a porn site. Put this exact same image on a porn site with hundreds of different thumbnails, this one would constitute as the least sexy option available.

Sorry Katy Perry, I’m a true left-winger, and viewing pornography is not a big deal to me. You might have shock value in comparison to the nuns at church, but in the Grand Scheme of Things, you’re average at best. Furthermore, I am at least familiar with two Katy Perry songs, and they both suck. I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It was dumb enough (another fine example of a subject that might have shocked nuns in 1957 but has no resonance on my kind) but Thinking of You was played constantly at a grocery store I used to work, and I vowed that if I ever heard it again that I was going jump in front of a truck.

Somebody had to have been in the studio listening to that with headphones. That person, by all means, should have put a stop to it because by the end of the song she just makes a complete ass out of herself. What’s most wretched is that she actually tries to sing and is even worse than Steve Perry—probably her fucking dad for all I know.

I have no fucking clue who the hell the person is in image three. I Googled “celebrities” and this chick came up. I’m guessing from the title of the website that it is somebody named Hudson. Can’t say that I’ve seen her in movies, but there is a possibility I’ve seen her 50 zillion times. It seems like I saw 246 exact replicas of her at Pick ‘N’ Save today. But, even as I am writing this, I already forgot everything about her. There is nothing memorable about her at all.

Going back to the image of the girl shopping. I have to say, I am definitely attracted to this girl, and it might be hardcore infatuation; that’s why this is such a contradiction for me. I claim to require an edge. It’s difficult to say that her image has an “edge”, but there is something unique about her. She has just enough edge to keep her out of Carrie Underwood territory, but hardly in the same category as, say, Wendy O. Williams. But, then again, I have no edge, and have deemed the hardcore badass image as out of my league. So, this girl might be all the edge I could ever achieve.

Appearance wise, she is borderline perfect. She has the ideal figure, her perky breasts protrude just enough to be visible even in a heavy sweater, she has nice fingernails (which I like), nice hair, and pretty eyes. All of this seems to come natural, but I have to question how much effort she spends making herself beautiful; and what percentage of her conversation topics regards her image, her outfit, her hair, or the shit she bought at Bath and Body Works. Furthermore, one has to factor in what accounts led to her posing for this picture in the first place; models who self-proclaim their own beauty tend to have none.

Her mouth, and I really hate to say this, gets a perfect 10. She has the defining lines on either side of her nose and a gorgeous smile. When I look at her open mouth, coupled with those eyes, I can’t help but fantasize about getting a blow job from her. In fact, I’ve spent a good portion of this Memorial Day debating whether or not I should get it out and take care of business thinking about her (I haven’t, thus both of our Girlfriendfax History Report remain OK).

Here’s the kicker with this. She is in the douchiest possible pose imaginable. A woman smiling holding up shopping bags is as cheesy as possible and I frequently include these images on my website just as a joke. This one girl, assigned to the dubious task of posing for a picture holding shopping bags, trying to look as douchy as humanly possible, is significantly way sexier than Katy Perry rubbing her pussy. She qualifies as sexy without trying to be sexy. If she were photographed on a stage rubbing her pussy with those luscious fingernails (this girl’s hands smoke Katy Perry’s, I think we can all acknowledge that) plunged in-between her legs, then I would have spent the entire day devising ways to devote my entire life to her. In fact, I am making her my background on my computer as we speak.

And here’s where life becomes incredibly dangerous. This girl in this stupid ass shopping picture that has caught my fascination; I may have decided that when I go out shopping for a new girlfriend, I am going to seek one out with this image…and it’s this image itself that is so dangerous. Just looking at her, I cannot immediately disqualify any certainty that she is a Journey fan. I cannot rule out that she is having sex with a fat douchy bro right now as we speak. I don’t know her Girlfriendfax History Report and she might have a salvage title with a creepy ex-boyfriend still trying to fix her up. She might come equipped with a poor stereo and doesn’t even know who LCD Soundsystem is, a band I consider kind of mainstream (albeit good mainstream). She might be expensive, and can’t get in and out of Culver’s without spending a fortune…or she doesn’t eat that crap because she doesn’t drink or smoke either—ever. She could be neurotic as shit, and if I tried to talk to her, she would beat me down with her shopping bags…that contain the slutty clothes she bought to participate in a slut walk.

Being as I could not consult with Consumer Reports for this, I set out to create my own personal buyer’s guide. In fact, I decided to boycott Consumer Reports for their failures to offer any sort of helpful product information in what I consider the most important decision a person will make in his/her lifetime. It’s strictly because of Consumer Reports why the divorce rate in America is so high…with their emphasis on worthless items such as toasters, gas grills, blenders, used cars, waffle irons, and other useless gadgets that are of no use to anybody.

Unlike every other time in my life where I have made snappy decisions when obtaining a new girlfriend by falling for pressure sales tactics, or because she was quick, convenient, on sale, and I was just desperate and opted for an impulse buy… this time around I vowed to be a smart shopper. I decided that I was going take notes, keep a journal, and explore all the options available before settling on the next person to completely ruin my life for the small price of a once-every-six-weeks sex partner. Being as I considered the selection of the next abusive neurotic girlfriend who will take all time, money, beat the shit out of me, and dump me for her ex while I still owe payments, to be a much more important decision than purchasing a $14.99 toaster from Wal Mart, I created my own ratings system, and a list of categories that I deemed were important to consider while Girlfriend Shopping.

On a side note: Consumer Reports magazine has reviewed toasters. Who the fuck gives a shit about toasters? Does anybody seriously compare all possible features while exploring the options of a potential new toaster? These days, they keep toasters near the check-out aisles at the store alongside candy bars, tabloid magazines, and combs…and most simply grab the first toaster they see each week and toss it in the cart. Here I am shopping for a girlfriend, a major investment, and here they are reviewing mother fucking toasters. Toasters are one of those items that if you accidentally left one on the bus, you wouldn’t even call the lost and found hotline searching for it—unlike sunglasses. For proof, go to the kitchen, unplug your toaster, and carry it with you on the bus, then leave it in the seat when you get off the bus. Then, wait around for that same bus to come back—$50 says the toaster will still be sitting exactly where you left it. At the very most, somebody might roll up the electrical cord and place it under the seat.

Even though I am now boycotting their Consumer Reports Magazine, I am still obsessed with the Consumer Reports rating system. As a child, I would often flip through the pages just gazing at all those red and black circles, fantasizing about the day when I would make a purchase just to discover it had been rated with the fully red circle with the white dot in it. There is nothing more prestigious in this world than having a red circle with a white dot in it listed next to items in your home. Due to copyright infringement, and the fact that the individual symbols are not even available on Google images, I had to create my own. The rating system goes as follows:

 Excellent! Provides blissful perfection you’ll rave about to all your friends
 Above Average Most consumers express happiness
 Average Nothing special, but tolerable
 Below Average Useable, but irritating
 Poor Product is a piece of shit

Like so many other people do when they begin the process, I began my girlfriend shopping at the mall. The mall is the ideal place to simply look around and get a feel for whatever features you may be in the market for, and have a gander at the selection and prices. A smart shopper knows you always find a better deal elsewhere. While walking down the main aisle, I noticed a relatively cute girl working at a shoe store, and decided to stop in and possibly chat with her. She appeared somewhat in my league and there was nobody else in the store.

The moment I went in, she approached me and asked if I needed any help; in which I kindly told her that I was just looking. Perhaps it was because there was nobody else in this small shoe store, but she remained standing close behind me while I browsed the shoes. I really wasn’t interested in purchasing any shoes and didn’t even have any money to buy any. Therefore, I wasn’t even paying any attention to the shoes; I was simply standing there pretending to be interested in the shoes, trying to think of a way to engage in conversation with this cute sales associate.

Every time I looked behind me, she was standing over my shoulder monitoring whether or not I needed any assistance; I found this to be a bit odd. I was shuffling through my head trying to think of something to say to her, but struggled to find anything. Due to the fact that I wasn’t planning on purchasing anything, and was only interested in her and not any of the shoes, asking questions about the shoes was not a viable option. Also, I hate it when people ask me questions about cheese at my work, and I assumed she probably hated talking about shoes.

So I just stood there, motionless, staring at one section of shoes that I had no intentions on buying; the entire time, she stood behind me, silently, waiting for me to ask her something. I would periodically look back at her, we would make eye contact, but I never could think of anything decent to say to her. Admittedly, it was very awkward with her standing this close behind me waiting for to be of assistance.

Then, it dawned on me that I was in the women’s section, and had spent the past several minutes gazing at a small section of women’s shoes with this cute sales associate standing right behind me. They were extremely girly shoes too, high heels and sparkly silver sandals. I looked around and realized that this place did not even sell men’s shoes at all. Once again, we made eye contact and I felt even more awkward.

“Would you like to try something on?” she asked pleasantly.

It was time for me to get to the point. “So,” I said avoiding the question just trying to think of something, “Are you going to the Brewer’s game tonight?”


“OK,” I said with as much enthusiasm as possible, “well I hope you have fun!” And then I left without saying anything more.

Despite the fact that I did not obtain her phone number, I felt I was off to a great start. Many conclusions could be made. She did at least stand by me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she was making fun of me. It would be interesting to know what she was thinking the entire time she was standing behind me. Her ratings went as follows:

Girl From the Shoe Store
Unique Features
Girlfriendfax History Report
Was a bit creepy standing behind me; store played Dirty Projectors; dressed as a corporate sales associate; spent lavishly on shoes; probably did not deal with many other guys at work; could be ideal for a foot fetish.
End Result:
May have suspected that I was a homosexual

Walking around the mall, there were simply too many attractive women that qualified as acceptable girlfriends- at least for a couple days anyway. However, I had no clue how to approach any of them. What am I supposed to say? It’s not like I can sit in the food court staring at everybody; or float a sign suggesting that I am shopping for a girlfriend. Perhaps being single for over a year meant that I was out of practice (I ruled that notion out because I was never very good at this to begin with). Therefore, I decided to make yet another sacrifice and follow some lady around to maybe conjure some ideas on how to talk to random strange women.

She wasn’t exactly the most beautiful woman on Earth, but I knew that I realistically had no shot at scoring with her. This woman was simply to be a case study to figure out what I needed to do. Wherever she went, I followed close by. When she went to the food court to eat lunch, I sat at the table next to her. Her selection of food was a bit odd; she went to Cajun Kitchen and ordered what I considered Chinese Food. After she ordered, I ordered the exact same thing just to see what it was like…it fucking sucked actually, and I didn’t see how anybody could eat this shit.

Rather than finish my grotesque food that I considered a waste of $9, I simply sat at the table watching her eat. When she got up, I got up. I followed her inside every store she entered, and monitored the items she shopped for and the means in which she purchased them. While she was browsing outfits to try on, I stood relatively close to her in a similar manner in which the girl at the shoe store stood by me. When she made her purchase, I stood behind her in line and noticed that she paid with credit cards each time. I attempted to eavesdrop on the conversations she engaged in with the cashier, but all they discussed was the weather.

It was rather embarrassing when the woman I was following went to shoe store in which I attempted to court the sales clerk. The sales associate seemed a bit puzzled when I returned 9 feet behind this lady. She seemed even more concerned when I simply sat on the bench and watched this lady try on shoes. Fortunately, I did not have to speak to the sales associate because the woman I was following interacted with her about the excellence of Cajun Kitchen. It turned out that her name was Pauline and she held a moderately important position at some accounting firm on the west side; probably made good money too because the shoes she purchased were expensive (although kinda ugly—I wouldn’t ever wear them).

When she left, the associate attempted to ask me if I needed any assistance, but I left too. As I was following her around the mall, she finally turned around and asked, quite rudely, “Are you following me?”

I found this to be a ridiculous question, especially at this point in our relationship. While she was browsing the women’s blouses at The Boston Store, I stood right behind her; ditto for when she purchased $63 worth of shit at the cosmetic counter; ditto for when she purchased 8 things in which I have no fucking clue what they are used for at JC Penny. When she tried on a series of outfits at some other damn store, I sat in a seat near the fitting rooms and waited for her.

“I am following you,” I confessed, but in soothing manner, with a warm smile.

She did not ask any further questions, which I personally thought was kind of hot. However, she simply called security, which in my opinion, qualified as a deal breaker.

Security was en route to escorting me out of the building and I explained to him what I was doing. He loosened his grip and listened attentively. We then turned back around, and the two of us continued to follow Pauline through Sears. It was most fortunate that we found her as she was coming down the escalator.

The security guard ordered me to hide and he was willing to offer tips on how to appropriately follow somebody around the mall without looking suspicious. He ended up being extremely helpful, and it seemed we were able to make some of the same determinations. While she was sitting on the bench kicking her shoe on and off, we both agreed that was attractive, but she was talking on her cell phone about meaningless bullshit. In fact, she talked entirely too long and we gave up on her. Out in the parking lot, the security guard and I shared a cigarette, discussed the matter, and came up with the table together.

Unique Features
Girlfriendfax History Report
Scores dropped significantly after the calling security stunt; failure to recognize that I was stalking her raised serious questions.
End Result:
I'm guessing she called security on security.

Discover the wonderful fascinating exciting world of cuckold. Unsure of what this entailed, I researched the topic on the Internet. There were numerous videos, and I felt this was a good way to learn about an option that had been presented to me. Apparently, this consists of a couple having a guy come over and fuck the girl while the guy watches. I watched the video, and solely paid attention to the guy sitting on the bed watching. He was by far the most interesting and I was curious how he was going to handle the situation. It almost looked as if he might fall asleep, and sort of dozed off in the middle.

After watching the video, I laughed for several minutes. Who the hell does this sort of shit? The other guy who came over was ugly—you’d have to be somewhat of an asshole to agree to that, and he looked like an asshole. I have no idea what the woman saw in him. There were numerous videos on a porn site and it had its own separate subject—meaning, people masturbate to this.

Unfortunately, I met a couple at the bar, and I had agreed to come over for it. The entire time, I was thinking that cuckold was going to be a board game similar to Monopoly. There was no way I could ever go through with this. One, him watching would ruin my concentration. Two, I was worried he would get angry with me and it would start a war.

I went outside and said that I forgot something. Once outside, I waited for somebody to walk by, and then sent him back in instead of me.

Cuckold Couple
Unique Features
Girlfriendfax History Report
Were willing to pay, cook dinner, free drinks, and provide something I had never experienced. significantly cooler than me; I acted like an overly conservative sissy.
End Result:
Let's hope they like the homeless guy as much as me.

Being as that alleged Cajun food sucked ass, I was still hungry and decided to treat myself to a real meal; the fine elegant dining of George Webb’s. Went in, sat down, looked at the menu, and it dawned on me that the server at George Webb’s had future girlfriend potential. She had the ideal work position, and I knew that she probably would not make fun of me for working at a Cheese Bar. Realizing that I now had to be utmost impressive, I went to the bathroom, fixed my hair and made certain that I looked somewhat presentable.

Luckily for me, it was not busy at all, and when she brought my food I asked if she would like to sit down and join me. She gave me a dirty look and informed me that she was extremely busy; too busy to be fucking around with some shitface like me. After she rejected me, she went to embark in her physical labor, which consisted of standing behind the counter talking to the other employees. I paid close attention to every detail, looking for some sort of common ground in which I could possibly win the love of the George Webb’s waitress.

She frequently discussed some guy named Brandon, and then Walker, and then Vernon. I soon found out that these three assholes were her kids. That was three too many kids than I cared to deal with, and I suspected there might be three different fathers. To make matters even worse, it was only May, and she was already discussing Thanksgiving. Apparently all three of them little bastards needed to be at three different places and Brandon doesn’t behave properly at Elizabeth’s house; last Thanksgiving there some serious drama that went down. She spoke of Elizabeth like she was a complete loser; that she was a fat Kentuckian whose head was infested with lice, the bitch was mean, and did not ever clean her house. More than likely, she would have regarded me in the same manner in which she viewed Elizabeth; perhaps why she never gave me a refill.

Waitress at George Webb's
Unique Features
Girlfriendfax History Report
Compulsive liar; the lure of discounted food seemed enticing; too many kids; I developed an immediate fondness for her friend Elizabeth.
End Result:
Had zero interest in me; made fun of me for working at Cheese Bar,

I sometimes reflect on my last relationship and ponder how it all went wrong. It’s not that I am stuck on my last relationship, it’s that I realized I had many faults and there were certain aspects of myself that I needed to work on. Jennifer Triolo was a music fan. However, a lot of the girly music she listened to I hated; she hated the overly noisy/weird shit I listened to. I once thought she didn’t know jack shit about music because she liked Sheryl Crow. After we broke up, however, it dawned on me that most women are more than likely going to prefer Joni Mitchell over Suicide and I needed to accept that.

But, I like Joni Mitchell too. And, I have a nice selection of woman musicians, even women folk musicians, even though it is not my preferred style. It’s rare to find someone who has a nice selection of Suicide, Pere Ubu, Boredoms, and all of that. I do not, even in the slightest least bit, like Sheryl Crow, Taylor Swift, Adele, Avril Lavigne, or any overly girly pop. On that note, some women have countered that they have a nice selection of Joy Division and The Cure, tolerate The Jesus & Mary Chain and Sonic Youth, but view The Residents the same way I do Carrie Underwood, Lady Gaga, and that kind of shit. I suppose that’s fair. Well, it isn’t, I have about 10 zillion reasons why it isn’t (one of them being Lady Gaga wishes/thinks that she is a greater shock to the system than Swans, but she is even more lame than Stryper was in the 80’s) but I have to accept it.

Shit like Kate Nash is intolerable though. And if I am not allowed to play Sightings around certain people, I shouldn’t have to suffer through Miley Cyrus exposure. Now THAT is fair. But the world doesn’t work that way, and my work in the daytime has a Lily Allen Pandora station that is unbearable. Pandora period is unbearable, and I wish they would hurry up and go out of business. Loving Pandora is a deal breaker for me.

Enter Diane, who is what I call a hippy hipster. She is not quite hippy and not quite a hipster. But, she claims tendencies to both, suffers from having neither.

Diane was dressed decent, and at least she was not an overly glamorous white girl. She claimed that she hated Top 40 pop music and insisted she liked women poets. When I mentioned who I liked, she merely said, “right on.” She didn’t know any of them though, and told me that I had to make her a CD. I did.

Sadly, Diane liked the CD, and used this as an opportunity to talk to be about music; and talk about herself; and talk about a shit ton of other things while I said nothing. Musically, she had potential, but she simply was not very cool—and I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Her favorite women folk poets included Bon Iver, Mumford & Sons, and Fleet Foxes—I pretty much hate all that shit, but at least I didn’t have to argue that they were white girls. Despite loathing Top 40 pop music, she had a special place in her heart for Pat Benetar, just because, “she was a badass and didn’t take no shit.” I questioned whether or not she even listened to the CD.

She was extremely kind. She complained about everything. She was annoying. She seemed to understand the reasoning behind in which her complaints were a product of a bad system, right on. She failed to realize that she was annoying to everybody around her. Her kindness made her even more annoying. Her diet primarily consisted of organic dolphin. Her ex-boyfriend had a shaggy beard and dreadlocks tied in a ponytail, he was white. She sort of talked about him too much, but claimed she wasn’t going to talk about him.

As much as I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt for being a woman, I had to dismiss her. My goal was to improve myself; and she was not even an improvement over Jennifer—although they’d probably get along. Whereas Jennifer was a hippy-turned-hipster gaining punk credibility, this chick was the opposite. Her most punk attributes consisted of owning some My Morning Jacket on vinyl and she just lacked that edge that I required for my next girlfriend. She did have some good weed though, and exceptional taste in movies.

Diane the Hippy Hipster
Unique Features
Girlfriendfax History Report
Good taste in movies, decent Socialist beliefs; taste in music was sub-par Girlfriend History Report showed a wretched history of ex-boyfriends with dreadlocks and ponytails. Annoying. May have been ashamed to be seen with her in public; high maintenance.
End Result:
Didn't hate her, put I value shampoo too much for this to ever work.

Thinking I might need some extra cash to take girlfriend shopping, I stopped by the bank to withdrawal money. The teller looked stellar, and I envisioned the scenarios of being seen out in public with her, her sitting at my couch, her lying on my bed, and she and I grocery shopping together. Looks wise, she fit the description to what I was shopping for.

We chatted about ordinary conversation. She asked how my day was going and she told me she couldn’t wait to be off work. I thought about inviting her over to my house, but opted against it. Then, the more she talked, the more I thought about it. Rhonda and I could never work together. Because she worked for the bank, and because of my personal beliefs, Rhonda was enemy of the state. Me dating her would be similar to a vegan hooking up with the manager of the local slaughterhouse.

Rhonda the Bank Teller
Upkeep & Maintenance
Unique Features/Bad Habits
Common Interests
Girlfriendfax History Report
Looks the part, but questionable character issues regarding employment; Potentially against everything I stand for; have never met anybody who dated a bank teller.
End Result:
Too risky- considered a nemesis

It was perhaps the worst weekend of my life; a Nickelback concert took place less than a block away from where I work.

Two things that somewhat define me: Sonic Youth is in my list of all-time favorite bands and I do not own a television. I hate Nickelback. Somebody had the nerve to ask me, “How could you hate Nickelback?” Seriously? I replied, being as I was working and getting paid to be nice, I simply told him that I did not own a television. There are a few people who also do not own a TV, and this trait immediately bonds some people. Of all of us who do not own a TV, I have never met a single person who did not own a TV and was an avid Nickelback fan. In fact, every person I know who does not have a TV despises Nickelback.

He then asked what kind of music I do like. I told him Sonic Youth, Velvet Underground, a few others and he had never heard of any of them. I then told him that I never met a Sonic Youth fan who also liked Nickelback. He asked what kind of music it was? I told him it pre-dated Blonde Redhead and walked away.

All weekend, the bar was full of Nickelback fans. I felt like a black person at a KKK meeting. Nickelback is a band that I frequently satirize, and I often refer to Journey as “the original Nickelback”, meaning that is the worst insult in the history of the universe. Throughout the weekend, I felt as if I had to censor the topics I normally talked about, and sometimes actually had to resort to discussing cheese. I did not want these people around me; but, at the same time, it was their right and I wanted them to at least be happy. I don’t ever want to see anybody miserable, nor do I ever wish to offend anybody.

This girl, sitting at the table, somewhat caught my attention when she entered. Since I am shopping around for a new girlfriend, I am taking numerous potential female encounters into consideration, and she was no exception, and I had no choice but to study her. She was seated with a couple, an older couple, her parents, and this girl dragged her poor miserable parents to see Nickelback; and I thought I was an awful son.

I was trying to be nice to people because I did not want to ruin their night. Then, it dawned on me: they had just seen Nickelback in concert, what could possibly ruin their night? For me, being at a Nickelback show would be “worst case scenario.” Traffic court, a coleslaw factory, a Journey concert, and medieval torture were the only places I could think of that would be worse than the Nickelback concert.

Do you know how great it would be to be a fan of Nickelback? If you can stomach a Nickelback album (I can’t even do one song), then you pretty much love everything. Fans of Nickelback are enamored with Dancing With the Stars and how talented they are; how pretty the celebrities on TV are; and all the other shit that I wondered who the fuck actually did that shit. Hell, Nickelback fans probably enjoy the way dog shit smells because it’s better than the music they listen to.

I was curious what Nickelback fans hated. What irritates a Nickelback fan? What traits do Nickelback fans find annoying?

As I studied the girl talking to my friend, she was fairly annoying although she seemed nice, I was trying to catch a glimpse of any clues that she might despise in the world. I thought about asking her out on a date just to see if anything annoyed her. Furthermore, if she liked Nickelback, she would have to like Sonic Youth—it would have to be an improvement.

She finally finished her drinks, and she was drunk off her ass. I don’t think this bitch was 21 either, but she was with her parents, so fuck it. I brought them their check and tried to talk to them. How’s your night? That kind of shit. I told her that we had a rough crowd come in before and they were annoying. I asked if she had any pet peeves.

She smiled sweetly: “Nope.”

Nickelback Fan
Upkeep & Maintenance
Taste in Music
Girlfriendfax History Report
Doubtful she was 21, but was severely intoxicated; the world was made just for her.
End Result:
Traveled to attend the Nickelback concert with her parents; enough said

Another ideal place to shop is online. Shopping online you can find all sorts of great deals, coupons, and the selection is often even better than in stores. Girlfriend shopping is a bit weird online. After a few quick searches, I kept getting re-directed to various porn sites. This was but a mild distraction, and caused a 30 minute setback. Then, once I finally made it to an online dating site, perusing those pictures caused yet another 30 minute setback.

All of these sites were stupid. Furthermore, I was not willing to give out my credit card information, and I sure as fuck had no clue what to put in the “about me” section or describe what I was looking for. One of them required a tagline, and I sat there for several minutes thinking of one, then just got frustrated and closed the browser. To ease my frustration, I simply asked myself: “What would a Nickelback fan do?” Then I got pissed off thinking about them.

I turned to Craigslist, because it is free, easy, and requires no sign up or membership. This one looked pretty good, so I responded to it. It read, “looking to suck a good dick right now! E-mail me.” So, I e-mailed her, and it turned out to be a scam, trying to get me to sign up for another dating site…age verification needed by submitting your credit card, expiration date, three digit code on the back, bank account number, routing number…all that shit. It didn’t even ask your date of birth.

After fucking with this for several hours, responding to all of them, one of them finally legitimately responded back. We e-mailed each other back and forth for awhile and contemplated having wild and passionate Skype sex, but she didn’t know how it worked. The pic exchange did get a little naughty…she sent me this photo of herself.

A part of me felt as if I got laid that night. We agreed to meet in person.

We met in person. Her pictures online looked good, but she didn’t look nearly as good in real life. She kept getting uglier too, and I questioned whether or not that was even her pussy in the photo that I had rubbed one off to just last night. I don’t mean to sound shallow, but her looks ruined everything.

The Nickelback became a frequent topic of discussion. There were Nickelback fans everywhere, and the cool people in Milwaukee discussed them in the same manner in which people discuss remedies on how to get rid of a bed bug infestation.

I somehow got into another conversation with some random girl at a bar. She insisted that she was a music snob and, like me, she did not like mainstream music and was into “weird” underground music. This person approached me, and had overheard me talking to somebody else I didn’t even know. I was just grabbing a drink and my friends were out back in the smoking area. If you approach me claiming to be a music snob and that you are into weird underground music, I will immediately be drawn to you and talk to you.

That brings us to the topic of Radiohead. I like Radiohead, obviously, they made the list. However, I do not love Radiohead. They have a decent selection of songs that I would say that I borderline love, but I do not regard any of their albums as anything that special. Furthermore, I think OK Computer is way overrated.

My hopes were high, she wss extremely cute, and supposedly we connected on the grounds I found most essential. Courtney liked weird music; “the weirder the better.” She hated Nickelback and made some funny jokes about the people running around downtown. I asked her what kind of music she did like, she answered, “Kings of Leon, Radiohead, and Death Cab For Cutie.”

But, she was adorable, and I smiled at her and accepted that her taste in music was a disappointment. I was looking for an escape route, but she asked me what bands I liked. Shit like Spiritualized and Moon Duo. She said she didn’t know them and asked if had ever heard Radiohead. I told that I did. She asked if I liked them, I said they were OK, except Death Cab, I kind of hate them. She kept asking me questions, I am certain she was not happy with the answers; not a fan of Kings of Leon newer stuff either, and apologetically did not consider any of those “weird underground bands”, and that they were sort of mainstream.

But I do like Radiohead. And the first couple Kings of Leon albums are decent, they have some good songs. I was trying to stay positive and did not wish to sound condescending or anything of that nature.

“Well,” she suggest, “You totally need to go back and listen to OK Computer again.” How many fucking times do I have to do this? Actually, I wish whenever I went out, or at my work during the day, they would stop playing Radiohead entirely.

“OK, I’ll do that,” I said walking away.

However, I was blocked in and couldn’t go anywhere. It was fairly loud too, so when we spoke, we had to talk loudly close to each other faces. At first, she was sort of getting fresh and I could feel her lips brushing up against the side of my face or my neck.

She then proceeded to go on and on about her favorite lines from OK Computer, and various other Death Cab and Kings of Leon albums. I do not know every single line in OK Computer, and cannot name every single song by Death Cab or Kings of Leon. None of them ever made heavy rotation in my playlists, and I have way too many other albums that I like better.

Courtney claimed that I never listened to them because I did not know all of their songs, and insinuated that I must not know anything about music. On that note, I began talking about albums that I did know a lot about. And I was trying to be nice. She had never heard of The Sea and Cake, yet I could name several songs by her 3 (only 3) bands. She had never heard of Strange, so I went newer, she never heard of Pure X, so I went in-between, she had never even heard of Broken Social Scene, so I went more popular…she had never even heard The Clash.

She was relentless, and got shitty with because I wasn't a huge Radiohead fan; and kept attacking me on this matter. I was scared that she was going to punch me. Eventually I had to stand up for myself, and she was no longer cute. I told her to listen to London Calling, Marquee Moon, and named off 25 other albums in a rapid quick pace, too fast for her to comprehend all of them, and told that after she listened to all of those she could dictate whether or not Radiohead should be categorized as advanced listening.

She took offense and looked as if she wanted to physically injure me-typical female in my world. “I grew up in a small town, they don’t have any those where I’m from.”

Rather than take offense, Courtney should have come over to my house, listened to a bunch of new music, and at the very least, became my best friend. Instead, she hated me and wished that I was hit by a speeding bus. I’m the opposite in this matter. I stupidly attempted to stand up for The Flaming Lips on Facebook, and the response was something along the lines of “Are you talking about when they used to rip-off Butthole Surfers or when they ‘re-defined’ themselves and ripped off Mercury Rev.” I didn't argue, I laughed, clicked "like", and started following his blog more regularly. Those are the people I prefer to associate with; that's how you learn new experiences in life.

Where I’m from, Radiohead comes in at #88. I grew up in New Castle, IN.

It was one of those rare occasions where the world seemed to be out of balance and had altered the perception of the entire planet. Miraculously, Dena thought I was hot; she was cute. All she listened to was death metal. Aside from only listening to death metal, she was cool. We agreed on many things politically and both of us had a sick, warped sense of humor. In fact, there was nothing she and I would not joke about—there seemed to be a slight contest to see who could take things the furthest…I won a few, she won a few. That was how me met, at a convenience store, taking turns saying horrendous things about Nickelback fans. She had to deal with them too, and was in the process of sharing this with the other metal cashier while I was in line.

However, because I listen to other forms of music, and rarely death metal, Dena thought I was a pussy. She claimed most of the shit I listened to was only slightly better than Dan Fogelberg. Furthermore, she found my sense of humor a bit too tame, and spent a good part of our walk making fun of me. For a girlfriend, I could not deal with waking up to death metal everyday and she more than likely would have considered an even bigger pathetic sissy most regular people do. As a human being, however, Dena was in my top few favorite people, I became a member of her fan club, and somewhat had a secret crush on her-even though she was extremely mean to me most of the time.

Taste in Music
Unique Features
Interest in Me
Girlfriendfax History Report
Two types of music: Death Metal and pussy shit; way cooler than me in every aspect; twisted sense of humor; thought I was pussy- frequently threatened me for no reason.
End Result:
Out of my league.

Often the best deals can be found on used cars. The same can be said for girlfriends. At least I could depend on an old-school Dinosaur Jr. fans to never declare Radiohead the greatest band on Earth. Unfortunately, it’s not as if these models are readily available and can be found anywhere. They have gradually diminished over the years, and most of the Dinosaur Jr. fans are married; some of them having several kids.

I searched everywhere. Once upon a time they were popular, I suppose, and their comeback albums have had some success. However, I could not find anybody anywhere that was a Dinosaur Jr. fan. Did these people not exist?

They do exist. Returning home, I sent out a message online and finally received a response. We e-mailed each other back and forth, and she ended up being my same age. However, she needed me to come pick her up, but I had no car. So, I agreed to ride the bus to address she sent me and we could ride the bus wherever we wanted.

The address led me to a drug rehabilitation clinic. Even though we were the same age, Mindy looked old enough to be my mom. I had to sign some papers in order for her to be released. Immediately, she bummed a cigarette and offered me a blow job in return for $7.50. This was the last remaining single Dinosaur Jr. fan.

Last Remaining Single Dinosaur Jr. Fan
Taste in Music
Upkeep & Maintenance
Interest in Me
Girlfriendfax History Report
I feel I could have cheaply had sex with given the right amount of effort, but all other areas proved too expensive. Veered from suicidal to homicidal every 30 minutes.
End Result:
I was unwilling to rearrange furniture to effectively operate a meth lab

For the past year and a half, I have not had a bed and been sleeping on a couch. Even before that, I had been sleeping on shitty “beds.” I slept on a futon mattress in Asheville after sleeping on the floor for several months. During my final months in Cincinnati, I frequently slept either on the floor or in my car. Last week, I finally purchased a mattress, and had to carry the queen sized mother fucker home from the store on foot. Therefore, I know what a struggle it is carrying a heavy object a great distance.

While I was sitting on a park bench in front of Walgreen’s on Oakland Avenue, a pretty girl walked by carrying a table. At first, I wasn’t even considering her a potential girlfriend, and instinctively offered her help. She accepted, and I carried one side and she carried the other side.

This table was a piece of shit, and I had no clue where she even found it. She claimed that somebody left it sitting out in front of her apartment. My suspicions were then aroused. I assumed we were carrying it to her place; but if she found it in front of her place?

Generally, I do not ask a bunch of stupid questions and either assume without caring, or figure it out on my own without inquiring. This time, I assumed I had figured it out on my own, but asked to make sure I had guessed this correctly.

“So, after you found this in front of your place, you’re carrying it to a friend’s house to see if they want it.”

“No,” she answered sternly, “none of my friends are into this kind of shit.”


“I don’t have any family.”

Whatever. It’s none of my business. But, I had no clue where we were going with this table. I’m not positive I was willing to walk several miles with a table, or if we were going to her crack dealer’s house. Uncharacteristically, I had to ask. “Where are we taking this then?”

She stopped and slammed her side down and stared at me coldly. “Do you honestly give a flying fuck where we’re going with this table? Am I going to have to sit here and answer a bunch of ridiculous allegations? Because I don’t need your fucking help! What? What the fuck are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Then shut the fuck up and keep walking!” She lifted up her side and awaited me to life my side. A real man would have slapped her, or at least told her off and walked away. As for me, I hoisted my side and hoped that she wasn’t mad at me. I had to walk backwards too, and this fucking table was heavy as shit. It pissed me off that I had to be the one to walk backwards because, one, I was the one being nice helping her out, and two, I was obviously struggling with my side and she wasn’t. When I had to set my end down for a second she gave me a dirty look as if she was going to hit me. Plus, the edges were hurting my hands. But, I persevered and kept walking.

We walked this mother fucker for almost two miles, maybe more. There wasn’t much conversation either. I asked if she went to the Nickelback concert, and she retaliated by lunging her side of the table at me causing me to stumble on the sidewalk. She was extremely mean; but I found that characteristic attractive. When she called me “a stupid little pussy” for having to change hands, I saw hearts floating in the air.

But, things got even weirder. We went off the main road, cut through a yard, and into a field. I had never even seen this field and had no clue why she was dragging a table through a field. “Do you live in this mother fucking field?” I asked trying to sound mean myself.

“Shhh,” she scolded, “it’s quiet time.”

My heart fluttered.

She ordered me to go in different directions, and now the grass was high and up to my knees. Finally, we reached our destination. In the middle of this field was a large crater, a massive hole that somebody had dug (probably her). We tossed this table down into the crater. The crater was full of other tables and this one nearly reached the top. In all, there were close to 20 tables stacked in this huge hole.

“Don’t you fucking tell anybody about this,” she ordered as she grabbed my shirt, put her finger in my face, and stared me down.

Honestly, I was terrified of her. I agreed not to tell anybody. She let go of my shirt and ran away.

Every single bachelorette party that has taken place in downtown Milwaukee has been the exact same; they are almost as deplorable as the Nickelback concert. They attempt to be shocking, but are nothing more than an annoying cliché fest. Most of the time, all members of the party wear matching shirts while carrying around stupid gag items such as inflatable penises. Even worse, the bride wears a crown on her head, the exact same crown every other bachelorette party wore before her. It’s supposed to represent her last night out, but they act more like it is their first night ever being in public.

While waiting on the bus, a bachelorette party walked past me and insisted the bride-to-be needed to grab my ass. I didn’t really want her touching me, I didn’t want any of them bothering me, but I did not want to be rude or embarrass her in front of her friends. Therefore, I let her grab my ass.

They all cheered as if this was a major accomplishment. Fuck, they didn’t have to ask—if they would have grabbed it and kept walking I wouldn’t have even said anything…shit happens all the time. Ideally, after she grabbed it, they would have kept walking, maybe even thanked me for my time, and offered to pay my bas fare. But no, that wasn’t good enough.

The bachelorette had a penis shaped lollipop and was licking it and sucking it assuming it made her look naughty and perverted; as if I had never seen anybody do that before. She licked it right in front of my face, as if she enjoyed licking penis shaped objects, removed it from her mouth and asked me if I wanted to lick it. Fuck no! First, it’s not in my best interest to be licking anything that is shaped like a penis. Secondly, it was just in her mouth and was covered with slobber. Not only that, I wasn’t sure how many other dudes she had pulled this same stunt with and perhaps it had been in several guys mouths. There was no way in hell that I was going to lick that thing or put it in my mouth.

After I rejected her, her friends kept begging me to do it. They even claimed that I had to. I never asked any of them to lick a lollipop shaped like a pussy.

I was then dragged to a shitty bar on Water Street; the worst section of town in Milwaukee. Basically, it is an entire street devoted specifically to Nickelback fans. My attempts to escape failed miserably. The next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor with a mother fucking bachelorette. I wasn’t even dancing, and the music sucked. It was just me standing there looking stupid and her rubbing her ass up against my crotch while sucking on that stupid penis shaped lollipop. Worst of all, the rest of the bachelorette party, in all their matching identical shirts and garments advertising who was who in the upcoming wedding, took photographs of it.

Somehow, unwillingly, without even any introduction, I had become part of this bachelorette party. I was dragged to the bar and forced to take girly shots…a blowjob. This was such fucking bullshit! Then, they all took turns groping me and posing in various positions while the whole group took photos. One of them placed my hand on her boob for a picture, which, I hate to admit, I didn’t mind too much.

But, other guys joined in also—without invitation. They would just enter the fiasco, grab some girl’s tits, and then pose for the picture. In all, every member of the bachelorette party had their boobs groped by, on average, 26 guys. And they all thought this was hot; I did not. Beginners. Amateurs. Most of these fuckers hadn’t even been out since St. Patrick’s Day, or maybe even New Year’s Eve.

The bachelorette took my hand and we walked to a table and sat down. She was pretty drunk and we were alone. For a brief moment, she actually talked as if we were both human beings, even though she kept her hand on my leg. Her name was Mandi, and she spoke about realistic issues temporarily. She claimed that she wasn’t sure if she was making the right decision and discussed her fears about whether or not he was the one.

What the fuck difference did it make? Mandi was exactly like every other girl, her whole party was a cliché, her decision to get married was a cliché, and I’m certain the guy she was marrying was a cliché as well. She was basically doing what she thought she was supposed to be doing; she did not possess the ability to think for herself and fell into whatever she was told was appropriate. This is not the category that I fit in.

That’s when she tried to kiss me. She was pretty forceful with this, and my attempts to retreat were not 100% successful. Honestly, this irritated me. Again, I don’t know how many other guys she had kissed this night. It’s not that I’m the jealous type, it’s that I view kissing a girl shortly after some other guy did the same way I view a man spitting on my food. If I was eating a sandwich and some guy rubbed his balls in-between the slices of bread, I would simply throw the sandwich in the garbage.

Kissing this girl, I felt like I was eating a sandwich that had balls rubbed on it. Furthermore, she had made a decision to get married. I was positive her fiancé was probably a boring ass Nickelback fan, but I did not wish to violate his manhood. If he saw us kissing, I doubted that he would be happy with it. But, I couldn’t prove this. It also perturbed me that she opted to marry some traditional “normal” person probably based on the assumption he was completely conventional and had a decent job; then the night before her wedding had doubts and sought my type for enlightenment.

“It’s my last night, you have to take me back to my hotel and fuck me.”

“Oh I do, do I?”

“Yes, it’s perfect because there will be no attachment. I’m getting married and you’re gay.”

“I’m not gay,” which was an immediate turn-off. I have figured out that it is the overly conservative types who think that I am gay; the type that hasn’t been out or exposed to anything out of the ordinary other than what they see on TV…skinny guys are often portrayed as homosexuals in the media…and fat people think they have it rough. Her soon-to-be husband was probably some burly deer hunter, that’s how men are supposed to be.

“Then that’s perfect,” she said upon finding out that I wasn’t gay, “we can have sex in my hotel room and we’ll both enjoy it.”

Hotel? That meant she wasn’t from Milwaukee. Most of the people hanging out downtown aren’t from Milwaukee. People who actually live in Milwaukee (or Madison) are pretty cool for the most part. However, the people who visit here from small town Wisconsin are unbearable. I suspect places such as Waukesha have to be third world nations that offer nothing in terms of cultural diversity. That was one of numerous reasons I refused to go to her hotel (the main reason being I was worried somebody I knew might see me walking with her and my whole reputation would be ruined).

The marriage part was another deal breaker. Anymore, I do not support marriage period. However, just because it has become an issue and I have no desire to control the world, I at least advocate gay marriage. If anybody should be denied permission to marry, it should be Nickelback fans. If Nickelback fans are permitted to marry, than the lousy Christian Republican government of the United States had no case denying anybody else the right to marriage.

I have a problem saying no, which leads to other problems. Then, I have to decide which problems have the worst consequences; and decided lying to a Nickelback bride would be less problematic than going back to her hotel to have sex with her. I agreed to go back to her hotel and have sex with her, but I had to go to the bathroom first. When she went to the bathroom, I dipped out the back door and hopped on the bus.

My list of lingering issues is problematic in my search for a girlfriend. Because I had so many dilemmas plaguing me, I opted to avoid any relationship with a “decent” woman due to the fact that I do not wish to impose these issues on another human being. I am a bartender, though, and it is my job to appear cheerful and remain positive. On that note, some people seem shocked that I have such a list of hardships, or are amazed how I stay so upbeat despite all of the bullshit I have had to deal with on a routine basis.

Debra was the spiritual type who insisted that I did not have any troubles whatsoever. At least I wasn’t dead, nobody close to me had died recently, I wasn’t in a wheelchair, and never been to war. Because I wasn’t a drug addict, I did not have it that bad. True. But, one reason nobody close to me had died was because I didn’t have very many people I considered close to me; especially now living in Milwaukee. I haven’t even seen my own family much recently, and most of my close friends from way back, in either New Castle, Cincinnati, or Asheville, I have lost contact with. I haven’t been here long enough to be overly close to anyone, and still haven’t even committed myself to staying here.

The problems she knew about had simple solutions. Just find a new job, it’s that easy. Tell yourself you’re going to, and you will. Just pay the IRS; you’ll get the money with your new job. Just pay the courts, ask your higher power, and all will be well. Just move to New York, make movies like you’ve always dreamed, and all will be well.

She’s absolutely right; even that meant surrendering and admitting defeat. I was still trying to fight the courts and the IRS.

I need to fill myself with positive energy to free my mind. I need to surround myself with positive people. Again, she’s absolutely right.

This would require a complete change in my lifestyle. I wish it could just magically happen, but realistically, it wasn’t going to anytime soon. She did bring some good points, but I lack confidence in some other regards.

I need to practice meditation; it works to free your mind. Your spirit will guide you. There is a self-help book by this guy who you should read. Tell yourself it will happen, and it will. If you want to be published, then all you have to do is make it in a way to make it publishable. Maybe change the title, cut out all the cuss words, all the sex, violence, drugs, make it good, make it positive, and make it better. This fragrance will help. That’s good you don’t have a TV. Now, just turn off all the music and sit in silence, all day, and all night, and that will free you. Only eat certain foods. Cut out gluten.

Taste in Music
Upkeep & Maintenance
Mutual Interests
Girlfriendfax History Report
Felt she needed corruption and more negative energy in her world; total silence drives me crazy; feared she may have considered coleslaw a positive energy food. Would had to have altered my whole lifestyle. 
End Result:
Used too much energy on perverted thoughts; not enough positive energy to succeed

Since I was comparing girlfriend shopping to car shopping, I decided to go to a car lot to find a girlfriend. There weren’t a lot of women working at car dealerships, but I finally found one. Her name was Meta and she had a lot going for her.

Surprisingly, she was older than me, but looked younger than me. She was extremely attractive and had a decent personality. Did not own a TV. Favorite band was The Smiths. Had a 17 year old son. Ex fiance (baby’s father) was trying to re-establish a relationship after his divorce.

Never in my life had I seen a case that had so many green lights and so many red lights and even a yellow light. Even though I never hooked up with Debra the positive spirit, I took her advice. I remained positive and told myself that it would happen.

Confidently, I told her that I wished to purchase a new car…this car, and it was relatively expensive. She asked me if I wanted to take it for a test run, and I had to decline because my driver’s license was suspended. Meta then asked how I planned on getting it home, and I proceeded to tell her all about my adventures with the queen size mattress. If I got that home, I can surely get this home. I’ll just push it home, and remain positive the whole way.

She both smiled and rolled her eyes at me. I felt as if I had countered a selection of red and green lights with a display of both features myself. We were headed in the right direction; the right direction being her office where I told myself this was going to happen; even though what I was hoping primarily consisted of me bending her over the desk and knocking it out right there in the sales office—fuck the car.

I filled out the loan application and answered everything positively. She asked what I had for a down payment, in which I reached into my wallet and answered $12.

The Cheese Bar didn’t exactly win her over, but I told her that I was positive that I was going to have a good job soon; assuming I wasn’t run over by a bus trying to push this car home. Positive! I will push this car home safely without being struck a bus. My credit was horrible and I was denied. Rather than get rattled about this, I sat with perfect posture in the seat, held my head high, and smiled. “That’s OK, it’s just a credit report. I didn’t really want the car anyway.”

Ever say something and wonder why in the hell you said that? I just did. Meta seemed to be wondering too.

I know why I said it though. I wasn’t focused on the car; I was focused on having sex with Meta in the sales office. Therefore, I just sat there in the seat, staring at her, smiling cheerfully, attempting to channel my positive energy onto her, thinking positive things in a manner where I was positive she could telepathically transcend what I thinking. I was thinking it could happen, and therefore, that was going to make it happen. I was thinking that we were going fuck right there in her chair. Any minute now.

As I sat there staring at her, I kept visualizing myself saying, “Meta, how would you like to fuck right here in this office?” But, the words never came out. They didn’t have to, because I was thinking it was going to happen, and that was going to make her want to rape me right there in the office.

Another reason the words didn’t have to come out was because I had to. Meaning: I was asked to leave her office. She stood up, approached me, and put her hands on me. I was thinking at first that this might be working. She jerked me up out of me seat by my collar, just as I was thinking she was going to do. But, instead of throwing me down on her desk and raping me, she threw me out of her office and escorted me out the front door; shoved me out forcefully and said if I wasn’t out of the parking lot in 30 seconds she was calling the police.

There are some extremely lame people who love Kings of Leon. Many Nickelback fans will site Kings of Leon as one of their favorite bands. Many Kings of Leon fans will site Nickelback as one the worst bands in history. On a whole, they bring forth the same amount of red and green flags as Meta the car saleslady did for me. In the end, both are on indefinite hiatus.

Courtney the Radiohead fan also claimed to be a fan of Kings of Leon. Also, Courtney claimed to be a music snob, into weird music, and donned a somewhat punk/indie image. You could tell by looking at her that she was at least somewhat cool, just not quite as cool as she thought she was. And, she hated Nickelback and complained openly about them.

Karen, like Courtney, claimed to be a fan of Kings of Leon. However, her other favorite bands consisted of Keith Urban, Adele, and Kanye West.

When Kings of Leon came on at The Cheese Bar, she perked up and insisted, “good song!” She swayed her head back and forth and synched the lyrics quietly, did not make too great of a spectacle. When she found out that I was the one who created the playlist, she claimed that I had excellent taste in music. Surprisingly, she somehow knew the song “Golden Brown” by The Stranglers and claimed that I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover when I seemed shocked that she knew it.

People insist on asking me if I like certain bands, and I insist on answering honestly. Nope, I hate Adele, all of her songs. Keith Urban sucks. Kanye West is a white girl just like Carrie Underwood. Nickelback is irritating. Journey is my least favorite band in history.

Unlike Courtney the rabid Radiohead fan, however, Karen laughed and found all of this amusing. In fact, she laughed at all my jokes, and I'm not even that funny. Best of all, she even wrote down bands that I liked and insisted she was going to check them all out and let me know what she thought. She even went so far as to claim that I was "awesome" that she was "in love with me" and would definitely be coming back- and I better be working.

If Courtney would have reacted this way, I would not still be shopping for a girlfriend. I pondered how life was going to be with Karen, and whether or not I could withstand an evening with Keith Urban.

I once proclaimed: I’m the smartest person you know, AND the dumbest you know. That was once Contradiction #3, but upon further review, I have dropped the smartest segment and simply boast that I am the dumbest person you know, even though I’m not that stupid in some areas, making that Contradiction #881,407. I have a way of contradicting myself, and that perhaps is why I am so stupid.

Kate wasn’t stupid at all. Intellectually, she surpassed me in every category. However, I understood what she was talking about. She spoke with big elegant words, had a wonderful vocabulary, could probably kick some major ass in Trivial Pursuit, and was also creative smart with the ability to devise conceptual theories on a wide range of subjects. She seemed to know all of the answers to everything and was not easily influenced.

Politically, she was a Socialist. We were about 92% compatible in every regard, only she could present herself much better than I ever could. I had what I once considered original ideas, but she held them also and could speak about them more elegantly. Because of this, there was an immediate attraction.

Simply put, I was too dumb for her though. All of the areas in which I at least held some intellect, she was significantly more intelligent. The ideas that I conceived had only been fabricated within my own mind; she had conducted research and had viable means to back them up.

We had met while discussing politics in the smoking area, and I was on her side. In my opinion, she subjugated her opponent in the debate. She had a way of making everything I ever thought seem better.

Afterwards, she and I talked for quite a bit. I liked her, but many of the topics she discussed, I had no knowledge; the majority of the time she was explaining or informing me about issues that I had no awareness. I enjoyed this; I like learning and she seemed to like teaching.

We stayed until bar close, which was sort of inconvenient for me because that meant I now had to walk home, and it was a long walk. Item #228 how I am the stupidest person you know. After they told us we needed to finish up, we downed our drinks and left the bar together. I walked with her to her car, she was walking perfectly fine, and I was slightly staggering; she drank more than me.

I didn’t want to tell her that I had to walk home. To be honest, I didn’t want her to give me a ride home. One, because I would have felt like a bigger loser than I already was; two, it was inconvenient for her and I knew this; three, it was late and I wasn’t sure how drunk she was. I was hoping she would give me a ride home. That doesn’t really count as a defining contradiction. I wish that I had only one way of thinking and didn’t see the world from every know perspective. She asked if wanted a ride home, I said no, she said are you sure, I asked if she was OK to drive, she said get in. If a woman tells me to do something, then I do it, especially when I am drunk. I don’t take orders from bachelorettes.

Her car was nice, and she drove OK. I’m glad I wasn’t driving because I was suddenly drunk as fuck; she was sober. Once we got to my apartment, she turned off the car and we talked again for several minutes. It was better when she talked because she was significantly cooler than I was. Whenever she asked me questions, I felt my responses were douchy and lame. She laughed at something I said and that surprised me. Much time passed and we sat in the car talking, until she finally stated that she needed to get going.

There was an awkward moment where I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to kiss her or not. I didn’t. But, she reached her arms wanting a hug, and I kissed her on the cheek—she thanked me for that. She insisted that we needed to hang out again, and I was shocked. Here I thought this whole time she found me a complete imbecile.

Some have suggested that I am too hard on myself. If I supposedly understood everything this genius was talking about, and she wanted to hang out with me again, then I must be smarter than I give myself credit for. Wrong!

My phone had been dead all day; therefore, I could not store her number. She asked for my number. The last four digits are either 3551 or 5331; I get them confused because I never call myself. Sadly, I always have to look it up because the first three digits are relatively similar. Like a complete dumb fucker that I am, and because I was slightly drunk, I accidentally gave her the wrong phone number and haven’t seen her since.

Jessica agreed with Debra that my problems weren’t that bad. It wasn’t because she was overly positive; she was worse off than me. Her mom was a heroin addict and had been locked up in the joint since she was 8; she didn’t like talking about her dad. However, we had a lot in common.

Like me, her license were suspended too; only hers was suspended for life because she accidentally ran somebody over while the passenger, her cousin, was a drug dealer and had a pound of cocaine on him. This was Thanksgiving and she hadn’t ever seen him before, only heard about him while she was in the foster home while her mom was doing time.

Like me, she didn’t have a TV. However, she didn’t hate TV like I did. She didn’t have one because somebody broke into her house and stole it. That’s also why she didn’t have a bed, somebody stole it.

She got fired from her job the other day over something she didn’t even do. There were a lot of issues in her life and I felt sorry for her. I offered her to stay at my house and said she could sleep on the bed tonight, and I would sleep on the couch in my room.

We walked back to my house. I have a queen sized mattress and she insisted it was big enough for the both of us. When I lay on the bed, she snuggled close to me, and fell sound asleep; nothing sexual happened.

There was no way we could have worked and I had to re-consider my whole life. I had been thinking that I needed somebody worse off than me, because that’s the only person I could possibly impress. But, after careful consideration, she and I together would only spell disaster.

The moment she woke up, she unplugged my fan, hoisted it off the windowsill and took it with her. Yes, she stole my fan.

Some people have suggested that I should go girlfriend shopping at church. This doesn’t work for me. There is a church right across the street from where I live, a catholic church, that also has a school. When I go out to smoke, and check out the babes while I am smoking, I will cease indulging into sexual fantasies about a woman if I witness her walking into the church.

However, there are some hot ass babes that go in and out of there. Some of them dress kind of slutty too, and that’s been a topic I’ve been debating in my head frequently. How much sexuality is a woman allowed to flaunt in front of catholic children? I don’t know; I’ve come to 8,743 conclusions and they all contradict each other. I can see every side to this issue.

But, I no longer wish to explore all possible options involving any situation. I’m never going to resolve anything and wish I could stop thinking about it. I’ve accepted the fact that women are going to expose massive cleavage in schools and wear jeans that make their asses look tight. Fuck it; it’s none of my business. I don’t have kids, I don’t like kids, and I enjoy looking at women in tight jeans, heels that expose her pedicured foot, and blouses that reveal cleavage. Like her.

She approached me; walked right up to me from the church and started talking to me. She looked good too, and her blouse was most of the way unbuttoned. Her sexy bra was visible through her transparent shirt, and it did not cover much. In-between her buttons, I could see her breasts, the outline of the bottom of her boobs. She was nipping out, and I wondered if her bra was even pulled up over her nipples. The goal was for me to talk to her long enough to where I could get a good look either down her shirt, a nice glance in-between her buttons, or better yet, take her up to my apartment and undress her completely.

I was curious what she was going to talk to me about, and I was hoping she was coming over to tell that she thought I was cute, wanted to know where I lived, and for me to show her my room. Better yet, since I was in the alley behind my apartment, maybe she wanted to get nasty and just do it in the alleyway—I’ve often explored that scenario. “Excuse me,” she said with her succulent nipples staring me right in the face, “I know this is a public alley here, but could you please not smoke right there. There are children at the school right across the street there, and I don’t think its right to expose them to cigarettes. You’re not setting a very good example by smoking here in the alley.”

The governor of Wisconsin is named Scott Walker. He claims to be a Republican, but only has that title because “Nazi Fascist” isn’t considered an appropriate party title…apparently it is acceptable to govern like one. There has been a significant amount of protest regarding Scott Walker, even by other Republicans. He is being recalled soon.

Hating Scott Walker is along the same lines as liking Kings of Leon. Me being an Anarchic-Communist, it’s obvious I hate him—I hate all governors pretty much. However, adherently opposing the Scott Walker Administration does not necessarily qualify as left-wing political righteousness or rebellious. Simply put, everybody hates Scott Walker.

My ideal girlfriend: the more left-wing the better.

April campaigned against Scott Walker and that’s how we met; she was discussing Scott Walker with some friends and I just happened to be walk by with my friends—she was sitting outside on patio seating on the sidewalk (this is fairly common in Milwaukee). I didn’t even involve myself with the discussion right away; my friend overheard her friend, my friend worked at a school, so immediately there was discussion. It should also be known, the group I was with, I knew two of them fairly well, but barely knew any of the other three. The one who joined in their discussion was one who I did not know that well.

As the others were talking, April asked me if I was a Democrat or a Republican, in which I replied neither. These days, that response immediately draws the assumption of Libertarian, and I’m not a Libertarian either. Many Americans associate Communism with strict dictatorships and assume that it means a police state with very little freedoms. Also, they assume Anarchist means a wild state of unruly society in which there are riots in the street 24 hours a day. Anarchic-Communism is an oxymoron to these types.

April continued to inquire about a lot of things. I think she was curious what exactly a self-proclaimed Communist exactly stood for, because it obviously was not what she was thinking and obviously was not exactly like what the Soviet Union was running. After hearing a few details, she claimed to agree with all of it but suggested it might not ever work in this society. Fair enough, I get that a lot. Then she claimed later, “That’s what I am too.” I get that a lot also, though I rarely see it, many have been too influenced by religion and the media to fully be one; and it sort of goes against what their initial premonition was.

Throughout the evening, in my opinion, April gradually shifted from being a self-proclaimed Anarchic-Communist to being a moderate Republican. I’m fine with that, but be true to whom you are. She was easily offended and seemed appalled when me and a couple other guys made some moderately tasteless jokes… this dude said that he lost his virginity in the back seat of his mom’s car, and I said that I was similar, but it was in the front seat and with my mom; my other friend claimed to have had a threesome with both of our moms, and we countered by saying we had a threesome, us two with his mom…then it became a 5-way when both of our moms joined in as well.

She took it seriously, as if we really did any of that. I’ve never even met their moms, and my mom lives in Cincinnati. There just mama jokes that have been around forever, and by 2012, they are kind of clichés. By this point in society, everybody should have heard a mama joke and know by now not to take them seriously. It doesn’t even involve our moms; it’s just a fabricated premise for a joke…similar to “The Aristocrats” joke.

By the end of the evening, she seemed a little too supportive of the police, I questioned the areas she considered “ghettoes”, claimed to be a feminist but reduced the role of women in society as nothing more than sex symbols, and openly complained about some of our tactics, claiming we were “crazy,” despite the fact that we didn’t even break any laws.

Taste In Music
Political Beliefs
Sense of Humor
Girlfriendfax History Report
Supposedly a left-winger, yet more easily offended as a Christian/Conservative Republican; just to see what would happen, I jokingly suggested I had been with her mama as well. Contradicted her "anti-war" & free healthcare stance after mama joke
End Result:
My busted lip further emphasized my point on gender equality

That’s a detailed summary of what I am faced with in my quest for shopping for a girlfriend. I have to be careful to examine some details because people lie and are not always what they appear to be. Rejection does not scare me. I would rather get rejected than be in a bad relationship and have to deal with another break-up. Some guys will not speak to women for fear of getting rejected. I am the opposite; I am worried she will like me, we’ll be in a relationship, she’ll turn out to be a bitch, and my life will be even more ruined than it already is.

Furthermore, I have to let some things slide and decide what I can live with and what I can’t live without. That’s fine, I’m fairly easy going, but for once in my life, I want to have that ideal happy relationship, for I’ve never had it before, although there have some nice moments throughout. I have a long list of deal breakers, but very few automatics in which I would fall immediately in love.

However, If a woman knew more about music than me, coupled with similar tastes and having a full understanding of all the aspects involved with composition, all other qualities and attributes would fall into place.

My Dream Woman
Taste In Music
Sense of Humor
Girlfriendfax History Report
Anarchic Communist with a warped sense of humor; knows more about music than me.
End Result:
Does not exist; recurring dreams have indicated she may reside in Kansas City

For a girlfriend, this really isn’t that bad of a review. If the attraction is there, sadly, it might be worth pursuing. However, it can cause a greater amount of future problems, than the benefits exhibited in the present. While the thought of sleeping with this person may be enticing, but do I really want to think of an excuse as to why I am dipping out in the middle of the night? Do I really want to have to change my phone number? These are important questions the girlfriend consumer must factor.

Hot Babe
Taste in Music
Upkeep & Maintenance
All Other Things Possible
Girlfriendfax History Report
Ideal! Definitely somebody worthy of frequent visits. So long as she kept her mouth shut, perfect. All other aspects can be disregarded during business hours. 
End Result:
Even after those  's become a reality, that   remains the achievement of a lifetime.

On the other hand, this review is completely unacceptable to be considered an ideal girlfriend. Let’s face physical attraction and intimacies are the essential factors that differentiate friends from girlfriends. If the attraction isn’t there, then there will never be any incentive to take the relationship to the next level. There has to be the desire to want to physically touch the person, which may explain why many women go to drastic measures to remain sexy. This is a shallow way of thinking, and there are multiple dimensions that define physical attraction. Admittedly, I too am shallow. Although I have a few drunken blemishes where I have been intimate with women who scored less than ideal in regards to appearance (butt ugly fat nasty zeroes most of them), the bottom line is, I will not pursue a relationship and regret the incident more than I would cherish it (my life is full of regret).

The savage heart of man is yet to be tamed. Shopping for a girlfriend is exceptionally difficult due to the amount of competition from savage men who act as if they have never seen another female in their entire life; or act like Australian bees in a mating ritual. Perhaps this is why people suggest a bar is not an ideal way to meet a woman. Disregarding this advice, I met Tiffany at a bar. Tiffany actually approached me and started talking to me first. Once I sat next to her, she frequently put her hand on my leg and seemed interested in everything I said. Things were actually going great.

It wasn’t even ten minutes when some other guy entered the picture, interrupted our conversation, and tried talking to her. She did speak back to him, even though he was what I considered a douche. However, she was not exactly “mine” and I assumed she was just being nice to this douche the same way I didn’t wish to reject the bachelorette in front of her friends. Before long, there were more of them. Guys were trying to buy her drinks, and I noticed Tiffany was one of only a few women in this place; this bar had become a complete sausage fest. I just sat there, unsure what to say, while dozens of other guys aggressively encroached with corny pick-up lines and useless tidbits of information regarding their pathetic existence. It was as if she was the only person in the world who had ever spoken to any of them.

When we left, she asked me to leave with her even though I had refrained from speaking; I was annoyed with these guys attempting to speak to me too. Without invitation, they followed us out, still talking about their lame lifestyles. It was a major debacle her leaving, and to them it meant social extinction.

She declared she was taking a cab and attempted to flag one down. During the wait for the cab, there was a huge competition of guys offering to drive her home and making propositions for her to come over, suggesting their best ideas for if she consented. For this one moment, they completely ignored each other, and basically begged Tiffany to allow one of them to take her home. I simply let her go; she got in the cab without any of them and left. I wasn’t’ sure what her exact feelings of the situation was. She seemed happy, laughed with all the guys trying to court her; making it difficult to determine whether or not she enjoyed this attention.

Furthermore, I wondered if I had misinterpreted anything she had said and hoped I wasn’t acting just like one in her presence.

I do not particularly like the bar scene, nor do I drink excessively, but after work it is pretty much the only place a person can go to be social. At a different bar, Ava, unlike Tiffany, told off some guy who was trying to court her at the bar; and was quite bitchy about too. It was quite impressive, and I expressed my admiration. In return, she gave me a dirty look and simply replied “thanks.”

I didn’t say another word to her and waited patiently for the bartender to come around. Once she did, I kindly ordered my drink without flirting with the bartender; unlike every other imbecile in this establishment who took advantage of the fact a beautiful woman was being paid to fake kindness towards these miserable pricks. “May I pretty please have a Pabst in a bottle?”

(Yes, I like Pabst…fuck you; it beats asking five million questions about every single beer the establishment carries on tap with a crowd of people waiting. That said, drinking Pabst makes me more of a beer snob than the person who asks to try samples while it is busy, causing the bartender to rush, pretend interested in insipid material, while creating excessive dishes to wash; people never tip for samples either.)

As I was waiting, Ava kept glancing up at me. However, I avoided eye contact with her because she had just berated one loser and I was worried she was feeling confrontational and wished to direct hostility toward me too for simply being near her. Instead of rebuking me, she ordered a Pabst too and even paid for mine; the condition, I had to sit by her. Some women simply want me to sit by them because I am non-threatening and assume other guys will cease bothering her if they see we are together.

Ava talked about herself, about her work, typical chit chat. She asked me questions regarding the same issues. Unfortunately, I hate telling people where I work; it’s embarrassing having to tell people that I work at The Cheese Bar. Swiftly moving past The Cheese Bar without any sort of interrogations about cheese, I tell people that I am a writer. What do you write? I don’t fucking know. The major problem with this: many people encourage me to write a story about their lives and proceed to tell me all about it. Ava did the same, and I simply listened, smiled, and asked a few questions. She was at least moderately interesting.

Apparently, she was the wild and crazy type and even confessed to have once been a major slut (those were her words, not mine). We kept talking about things, and somewhere out of the blue, she put her hand on my legs and kissed me. It wasn’t a tongue kiss or a passionate kiss; she just kissed me on the lips and backed off…then apologized for it. I was not offended.

Unfortunately for me, Ava said she was reformed, and resisted these urges. She talked about the way she used to frequently have sex with random guys, how much she used to enjoy “getting fucked all night,” and the ploys in which she was currently controlling it. Ava went so far as talk extremely sexy, discussing how she enjoyed the sensation of fingers brushing down her thigh and demonstrated it. “I really want to fuck you,” she blatantly told me, “but I can’t.”

About every 20 minutes, Ava shared her desires about how she wanted to take me home and have sex with me. In-between this however, she spoke of Jesus, and how this behavior was wrong. She talked about all the guys she had been with, probably thousands of them, and abruptly switched the conversation to dull subjects, such as her job and the cleanliness of her kitchen. My erection level would go from hard to limp to middle to sticking out the top of my pants to shriveled up until finally it declared, and this is coming from the 2nd brain prone to make bad decisions, “come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.” I looked down at my pants to see what he meant, “come on, just leave her, say you have to get on the bus, and let’s just go home.”

It took me ten minutes to finally leave, in which she kissed me several times but we never really made out. She insisted we should go back to her place, but said we shouldn’t. Brain #2 had lost his patience, “we’re not going back to her place…I’m going on strike.”

It’s rough working at The Cheese Bar. It is either extremely busy or completely dead. The clientele who do enter is less than ideal, and the shit we have to put up with is unbearable. Because of this, I have often fantasized about how fortunate people are who work at Applebee’s because they do not have to deal with our customers.

Nobody ever goes into Applebee’s and asks, “How does this work?”

Right around co-workers were growing weary of my fascination with Applebee’s, I met Katrina, who coincidentally worked at Applebee’s. I overheard her saying this, and this was the most aggressive I had ever been trying to talk to somebody. Instantly, I sat by her, and did what people often do to me…I told her my life story. Furthermore, I revered her as a Goddess because she worked at Applebee’s; I felt like a star struck groupie.

Katrina got to hear all about the tourists, the Nickelback fans, the questions, and how only 1 in 23 people who enter The Cheese Bar are commendable, and some nights (some entire weekends if Nickelback is in town) there are none.

She laughed at everything I said, told me to apply at Applebee’s and maybe she could get me a job there. Her friends insisted it was time to leave, and we said goodbye, shaking hands. I wished I’d have paid more attention to her reaction to me, because I’m certain it was similar to the way I respond to people who suddenly tell me their life story. I felt like a douche.

There’s a sense of intimacy that comes with riding the bus with somebody. For 20 minutes, the main background in my immediate view was the back of a girl’s head. She was beautiful. The view from behind is enticing, she had her hair pulled back, had a lovely neck, and cute ears. She was wearing two different kinds of earrings, and from behind I could mainly see the backs of the earrings, one was a French hook, the other was stem.

Also, she had pretty fingers…perfect to be exact. They were slender, her nails were nice and she could have been a hand model. The hood of her jacket was propped over the seat in front of me, technically in my space, and she kept putting her hand back in an odd position. Not only did I have the desire to brush up against her hand, but there was also a stray hair on her shoulder and I wanted to pluck it off—caressing her neck in the process.

Throughout this trip to work, I had developed a secret crush on some random girl on the bus, and sat there contemplating whether or not to act upon it. She kept glancing back, and the placement of her hand, I wondered if it were mutual and she had developed a secret crush on me on the duration of our bus ride together. The crush a girl develops has always been a topic of fascination for me, particularly because women could always fulfill their crushes, and they tend to be both more childlike and more lustful at the same time.

However, I do not have the ability to begin conversation with random strangers. Furthermore, I do not feel the bus is the appropriate time or place to entice a potential girlfriend, and find it annoying when other guys do it. Also, I have heard women find it equally annoying as I do, and have seen many douches make asses of themselves. Coincidentally, we departed at the same stop, and stood beside one another awaiting the bus to stop. Size-wise, she was smaller than me, but was ideal; we actually, in my opinion, looked like a perfect match. But, I was wearing headphones and did not speak to her. We got off the bus, walked to the corner together, she went one way, and I went the other…I had to go to work.

More Stupid Shit Girls Do. Aside from coleslaw and Journey, I am also somewhat known for having a foot fetish. While out with a couple friends, we had joined the acquaintance of some people one of my friends knew but I did not know. Time passed, and we were all having fun. For whatever reason, my friend found it necessary to tell everybody that I had a foot fetish.

“Oh, I have pretty feet,” said Staci who I had just met a couple hours ago. When I guy mentions that he likes titties, women never claim- “Oh, I have beautiful titties.” And, I told her that I viewed seeing women’s feet similar to looking down a girl’s shirt and seeing her bare breasts; or peeking up her skirt.

Staci not only felt she had to tell me that she had pretty feet upon hearing that I had a foot fetish, she also found it necessary to take off her shoe, strip off her sock, and show me her feet. After she bared her foot, she raised it in the air right in front of me, held up and wiggled her toes. “See.” Then, she put her sock and shoe back on and walked away.

I have no clue what to say in this situation. I’ve spent years trying to think of the appropriate thing to say when this happens and have yet to come up with anything. There are no self-help manuals for this either.

I spotted a woman in the cosmetics aisle at Walgreen’s, and she looked gorgeous! She was wearing striped pants that were immediately fashionable and I found them to be ahead of the curve on the latest trend. Her ass looked great in them too. In fact, her entire outfit was awesome, and I rated her “the best dressed female” in the city. Not to mention, she had nice clean hair that seemed void of any sort of parasite infestation. From the side, she had a great body, and perky breasts. Instantly, I thought she was one to the most beautiful women I had ever seen, perhaps the perfect mate for me, and strolled down the cosmetics aisle to take a better look at her. She was also bent down looking at something on the bottom shelf, and I was hoping to sneak a glance down her shirt.

When I walked passed, she looked up at me, and I finally saw her face for the first time. I wanted to yell out a loud “AHHHHH!!!!” like in horror movies.

For some reason, I have developed this notion that if a woman is sitting with her legs crossed, bouncing her leg up and down, it means that she is sexually aroused. I have drawn the conclusion that the more a woman is moving her leg in this position, the hornier she is. After all, when she does this, it has to stimulate her erogenous areas. To me, this is a stronger indicator than even hardened nipples protruding from a blouse.

Anytime I see a woman rocking her leg, I immediately have the desire to speak sexually to her (but never do). Once again on the bus, I was seated on one of the seats that face sideways, and a girl was seated directly across from me. We made eye contact, but I shyly turned away. She crossed her legs, and she was kicking her leg up and down rather excessively. Based on my theory, I guessed that she desired to have sex right then and there, and was only thinking about getting laid. This lasted quite a bit, and sitting across from her rocking her leg had similar results as watching a porn video. The entire time she was sitting there bouncing her leg up and down, twirling her foot, my head filled with perverted thoughts as I thought she was prime for the taking. It had the same effect of watching her masturbate.

Unfortunately, I still haven’t learned the art of seducing a woman on the bus. All of the things I wanted to say, the smooth lines I developed while sitting there watching her, all went to waste.

Rather than get it on with a random woman who was obviously craving sexual satisfaction, I once again had to return to my shitty job at The Cheese Bar. Unfortunately, I suffer from severe anxiety attacks simply walking to work. I have become so frightened of having to deal with this clientele, these exact same questions, and Nickelback fans who do not tip, that I suffer from the same symptoms as a paranoid schizophrenic leading up to entering work.

Being a bartender should be an ideal way to meet several women a night. Other bars have hot babes all over the place, in and out of their establishment, many of them dancing naked on the tables. The Cheese Bar does every now and then, and I have met some fine attractive women there. But for the most part, the women who enter this place are unfuckable, let alone girlfriend material.

Remember Debra? I went in with positive thinking. This was going to be one of those good days. There was going to be somebody extremely desirable at the bar. We would meet, hang out and have fun…just like a few weeks ago. The night a few weeks ago, I wanted to have happen every night, not once in a great while. Tonight was going to be different because I was channeling positive energy and going to make it happen. When I entered, The Cheese Bar was actually going to be a bar, nobody would order cheese, everybody would know the beer they wanted, tip good, and the customers would all be beautiful. In fact, I told myself the first woman I saw upon entering was going to be my future girlfriend.

Shopping for a girlfriend online led to another date. This girl didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and ate only healthy foods. She didn’t go to bars either, and I was shocked that she wanted anything to do with me. However, she was somewhat aggressive and said she wanted to meet just after our second e-mail. Not only did she want to meet, she wanted me to come over to her house for the date. Instantly, I assumed that she just needed to get laid, and I was fine with that. I was concerned with how she was going to look though, and feared that if she was this desperate to get laid that she would be hideous and possibly even resemble this old guy I met from Lubbock, Texas who asked a bunch of lame questions about cheese. Whatever, I was getting desperate too, and figured if she was ugly that it would just be something else that nobody would find out about—it couldn’t be all that bad.

When I got there, she looked better than expected, and was way more attractive than the old man from Lubbock, Texas. I was surprised and wondered why the hell a woman with her appearance was even shopping online, much less going to this drastic means to have somebody over to her house. I was thankful that I had put forth the effort to make myself moderately presentable, but was concerned that she was going to smell cigarette smoke on me…even though it had been over an hour since my last cigarette.

Elaine was extremely concerned with the laws of heredity. Her mom had developed skin cancer, and she took all means necessary to take excellent care of her skin…because it runs in the family. Her father was wounded in an elevator accident; she no longer rode elevators…because it runs in the family. Aunt Suzy was killed in a farming accident, so she refused to do any farming (?). Uncle Harvey was shot in a drug deal gone awry, so she shut down her meth lab operation (?). Great great great Uncle Herman suffered from deterioration of the lungs, so she kept an air purifier in her home. She had an oxygen tank, but her grandfather had been killed in an explosion, and that was too risky.

Not only did she not drink alcohol, she did not drink anything but purified water, Aunt Mabel suffered from lead poisoning. She spoke of elements in the water that was creating harmful effects in the environment. There were all sorts of other contagious diseases going around that I had never heard of, and numerous harmful scientific elements in everything… she had gone to a friend’s house who was seemingly unaware of the effects of Charbenorousoiskiosis that was infested in her carpet; looked pissed that I had never heard of it.

I figured that if anybody in her family had ever contracted STD that I wasn’t getting laid anytime soon; I pictured her sterilizing a vibrator with a powerful disinfectant because even masturbating once a month ran the risk of Ovulatoryatonerasikilionentation. I also wondered how much of this other shit she spoke about would induce a red squiggly line underneath it indicating the word did not exist.

Taste in Music
Upkeep & Maintenance
Fun Destructive Habits
Girlfriendfax History Report
Could not afford the insurance; spent lavishly on home remedies- none of which induce euphoria. Girlfriendfax History Report offset by numerous family tragedies which ran in the family, even though her ex-boyfriend history is virtually unblemished.
End Result:
I've had recurring dreams that I am going to die 08/21/2012

There are places that operate with the slang term “meat market” because they are full of slutty girls and it is easy to get laid. Admittedly, I haven’t had the best of luck at these places and generally do not like them. These places are not my natural environment, I hate the music, and I generally hate the atmosphere.

I went to one because I was desperate. First, I had to pay an $8 cover charge just to get in, and this place was not all that great. Inside, there were a fair share of attractive women; conventional attractive that is, dressed in slutty attire that revealed most of their bodies. On the other hand, there were an enormous amount of guys present too, and they were not attractive at all…many of them were obese and too damn big to be on the dance floor. The women here were supposedly easy, and anybody could get laid here. That was my only purpose, so I had to pretend to be something that I wasn’t.

I was way outside my comfort level and this was not my natural habitat. The music sucked and there was no way I could dance to it. But, I was pulled on the dance floor by a bimbo and forced to dance. I simply ignored the song and put “Satan Said Dance” in my head and pretended to move to that beat—this song always provides that outlet for me.

Maybe it was an easy place to get laid, and this girl grabbed me when I wasn’t even looking. After the song, we went to the bar, and I was expected to buy her a drink…she wanted to do a shot too in which I had to pay for. Two beers and two shots came to $26, $30 after the tip. If you include the cover charge, I am now up to $38… a blowjob from a hooker normally runs $20 and the music’s better, although this girl was a bit sexier. We talked, somewhat, if you consider a series of “oh my God!” and “like, yea” conversation. She was unable to put together a coherent sentence. At least she kissed me, we made out for a few minutes, and I stuck my hand up her dress. We went outside to the smoking area, and she basically attacked me. This lasted 8 minutes, some other dude tried to get in on the action, and she flirted with him briefly, but pulled me back inside and to the bar. She ordered another round of drinks--$26.

I didn’t have 26 more dollars. She told me to just use my card, but it got declined. Fuck it, I wasn’t willing to spend this much more money, and was satisfied that I at least fingered her. After my card was declined, she walked away and went to some other guy.

Other men aren’t’ the only cock blockers. In some cases, the cock blocker may not even be human. Ashley and I hit it off, and even engaged in a hot make-out session outside in an alley. Things were getting steamy as she had her hand down my pants and I had her shirt pulled up. We went back to her place to take care of business.

Back at her house, lived Zanzibar, a huge ferocious German shepherd. Zanzibar apparently had issues around other people and she had rescued him from an abusive home. The moment I entered, Zanzibar barked angrily at me and tried to pounce on me. She stopped Zanzibar and scolded him. For the next hour, she lectured Zanzibar and attempted to train him on how to be nice to people, be nice to me. The mother fucker growled at me the entire time while I stood there looking stupid. I didn’t care about this dog’s habits and viewed this behavior the ultimate buzz killer. Finally, I kissed her goodbye and left…it was getting late and Zanzibar was more than I could handle.

Outside The Cheese Bar is a plaster statue of a cow inside a dog house with the chalkboard listing the specials. For us, it’s simply referred to as “the cow” and if you say “the cow” to an employee, everybody will know what you are talking about.

The cow has a wire sticking out of its’ ass and 89% of the people who walk by comment on the wire sticking out of its’ ass. 42% take photographs of themselves humping the cow. This poor cow is probably on numerous Facebook pages being violated in the streets of downtown Milwaukee.

When I go outside to smoke, I stand on the sidewalk and the cow is present. It is a busy sidewalk and there are sometimes lots of people walking by. A girl was sitting out on one of the tables smoking, and she and I got to talking. Abigail was pretty cool and we enjoyed a few laughs. It seemed that every time I went out, she was outside too. Perhaps it was fate. She asked me what time I got off work and suggested that maybe we could go out for a drink when I was done working. Excellent! Come 11:00, she was outside again waiting for me, and said she would wait there until I was done. This was perhaps a dream come true!

Each night at the end of my shift, I have to commit social suicide. Before closing up, with the use of an old junky red dolly looking thing, I have to hook the dolly to the hitch of the dog house, and bring this enormous cow with a wire sticking out of its’ ass inside the building. 71% of the time, people comment about this. This night, everybody laughed at the cow, pointed, and hollered out “look, he’s taking the cow with the wire in its’ ass inside” and proceeded to heckle a bunch of stupid lines “try not to fuck the cow” or “take that wire out of its’ ass.” It’s so embarrassing. Apparently, it made me look to too big of a loser for Abigail to endure, and she participated in the heckling and left. The cow: fucking cock blocker

The worst cock blockers are the ones who are totally uninteresting; these also usually happen to be older and married. When presented the opportunity to speak a woman, meaning in the same place, they pounce on it and, being nice, talk about meaningless bullshit because his wife hates him.

A friend claimed his girlfriend’s cousin had a thing for skinny guys and he was going to introduce her to me. She was similar age, and it seemed perfect. To be honest, I was a little nervous meeting her because the expectations were now high. When they returned, they sat in a seat which also happened be next to some older guy who was married. I got up temporarily to prepare myself for her, and when I returned this douche was talking to her. My friend had sat down next to her, and I was standing.

This dude was talking about stupid shit. He spoke of where he lived, when he moved there, and where he worked. It was painfully dull and nobody was interested. Also, he had his kid with him, and his kid was significantly cooler than he was—the kid was 9. Holly was interested in the kid, he was a cute kid, but this dad was acting like an ass, and assumed that since Holly was interested in his kid that she would be interested in him too. He said something perverted to her and it made her uncomfortable. I had yet to say more than two words to her, and supposedly he was trying to set her up with me. After one drink, in which this guy talked during the entire duration, she said to my friend that she was ready to leave, signaling the guy next to her was annoying her. I didn’t even have the chance to speak to her.

In many cases, the cock blocker will be other women. Back before I was girlfriend shopping, Mitch & I were totally hooked up one night. There were three of them, I asked which one he liked the best, and I had one that I liked best. It was perfect, the chick he liked dug him and the one I liked had also liked me. They wanted to hang out with us, but the third, the gross fat one, insisted it was time to leave. This happens frequently. Some girls also feel they have to be a protector and prevent any person from speaking to any of her friends.

Then, there’s Allison. She kept glancing up at me and we were making eye contact and whatnot…there was an obvious attraction. Allison’s friend was talking the entire time about a situation regarding some drama in her life. Finally, this friend got up to use the bathroom, and Allison scooted over towards me to talk to me. We hit it off and enjoyed a few laughs. But, when her friend returned, she once again consumed all the attention. Not only did she cock block me, she cock blocked Allison who I sensed was growing weary about having to listen to her bullshit.

Fed up with the Nickelback fans and the downtown scene, I finally embarked to a place where I was more comfortable—my kind of atmosphere that played cool music. Every single girl here was with another guy except for one. I focused on my goal of “we will be on it.” She looked punk, seemed punk, and looked to fit the part. The mere fact that she was here spoke volumes. This was the place where the mainstreamers were not welcome.

Eileen claimed to like all kinds of music and said her favorite bands were Green Day, Fleet Foxes, and Shakira. Also, she could not wait to go see the movie What to Expect When You’re Expecting this week. She was a phony, a fake. Hearing all of this shit was like hooking up with a girl and she ends up being a guy. To top it off, she said that she was punk because she liked mainstream, and that made her cooler.

I had headphones on, and a woman inquired about them asking about the quality. She had been to the Nickelback concert and said so. However, she wanted to hear my headphones anyway, and asked what I was listening to. A band called The Locust, I answered.

Recently, I was scolded at work for playing “Cry Sis” by Sebadoh to ward off some Nickelback fans who were insinuating that Counting Crows and The Gin Blossoms were the best bands from around 1992. My best of 1992, top 25 began with Sonic Youth, Guided By Voices, and the aforementioned Sebadoh. These so-called rockers were appalled and I was required to play something a little more “appropriate.”

I wasn’t on the clock. She claimed the Nickelback show was loud and rocked; she was put to the test. The Locust did not go over well with her, and indicated that she could not understand what they were saying. As if Nickelback is spewing out intelligent lyrics. Then, I told her to wait for the good part, which begins at 1:20. It was still too much for her, and I told her it gets even better, as I made her listen to it at louder at the 2:27 mark.

“That? It’s just a bunch noise.” She laughed and then concluded, “This song doesn’t have any good parts, and it’s probably the worst song I’ve ever heard.”

Good for The Locust!

I had had enough, and decided to put my girlfriend shopping on hold until a later date. It had been a rough day, and the night was no better. Furthermore, I was stuck downtown only because it was convenient, and was only at these places to be with friends who insisted we go out for one. We were sitting outside, I started talking to some people from another table, they all went inside, the people from the other table went inside, and I was left alone smoking. No big deal, I wasn’t worried about anything, just going to finish my cigarette.

A woman approached, sat beside me, and asked for a light—introduced herself as Christy. She asked if I was waiting for my girlfriend and I told her that I didn’t have one. Some reason, some people ask why not, and I never know—I think they do this to inquire whether or not I am gay. Once she realized that I wasn’t gay and single, she pounced on the situation.

As we talked, she crossed her legs and her foot happened to rub against my leg. She was not that great looking and I was not particularly interested in what she had to say. But, due to my medical condition called foot fetish, if a woman puts her foot on my leg I become powerless, I am under her spell and there is only one thing that can break that spell. Christy even glanced down at her foot and noticed it brushing against my leg, and kept it there and went on as if nothing was going on.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything but her foot on my leg. The shit she was talking about made little sense; the questions she asked I had no answers. Any time I did have a brief moment of clarity, she and I had nothing in common. But, I was under her spell and was surrendering to the notion that I was going to be taken back to her house and she’d have her way with me. Right at the last moment though, her phone rang…the spell was broken. It was the one thing that could break the spell.

Some guys resort to getting women stoned so they can have sex with them. Women often utilize this tactic as well, and several have tried it on me. Unfortunately, this does not work with me. Many guys will fuck anything that moves when they are stoned. I am the opposite, and won’t fuck anything.

It’s not that I have anything against it or lose my sex drive, in fact, it’s the opposite. When, I am stoned, I don’t know what I am supposed to be doing and become incomprehensible. My mind drifts off and I lose touch with reality. Katherine found this out the hard way.

We went back to her place. I had already had a few drinks and was feeling inebriated. If she was smart, she would have stopped here; she could have done whatever she wanted. I was also in that rare form where I might even have tried something on her. But, she broke out the weed and after several hits; I was in a different world. My off-kilter topics of conversation more than likely made no sense to her, but I could not stop smiling about things. As for us hooking up, I could clearly visualize her putting her arm around me, unbuttoning my shirt, and seducing me. But, that never happened.

She did touch my leg though. I wasn’t prepared for it yet and I twitched superlatively—my reflexes were great at least. When she got close to me, I flinched and scrunched up. Her finger lightly brushed against my arm. That was about the time the room started spinning. I had step outside for air, and I never returned.

Taste in Music
Fun Destructive Habits
Girlfriendfax History Report
Did not know how to quit while she was ahead; inconsistent value- she provided the weed, but did not need to spend it then, raising questions about what else she wastes.
End Result:
She doesn't know where I went; I don't know where I went either.

Shannon dressed in the retro vintage clothing and modeled herself after Betty Page. I found her attractive and was curious what else she might be into; being as I was shopping for the best bargain. On a compatibility test, personality wise, we shared a lot in common. It wasn’t 100% perfect though, and I felt I would grow tired of seeing these outfits every day. Also, she wasn’t into me because I didn’t have any tattoos or the “greaser” looks. Although she was pretty cool, fun to hang out with, and enjoyed watching trippy cartoons, Shannon was just not quite what I was in the market for; nor was I for her…even though we liked a lot of the same things and remained friends.

As with Shannon the retro girl, some women will claim to be too weird and have unique tastes. Stevie was this type, and it was most fitting that she had a man’s name. Some of her bizarre theories and fetishes I could live with, but I did not find her overly attractive. Furthermore, she did not take impeccable care of her body either. Many of her weird traits fell under the category of “geeky” and I simply was not into these things. She liked comic books, Star Trek, weird science fiction and horror movies, and music from the late 40’s. Also, she had a bizarre collection of toys and other peculiar decorations in her bedroom. I did find her a bit fascinating and took some interest in her. As a shopping reference, it would be equivalent to stopping in the aisle, grabbing an item off the shelf, reading the label, thinking it is cool, and then putting it back on the shelf…pushing the cart towards items that may be of better use. Stevie was, in fact, marketable, and I hoped she found the right purchaser.

One of my biggest flaws is that I do not like a lot of talking. Being as I listen to a lot of instrumental music, many times talking will annoy the shit out of me. The same can be said for bad singing.

I met Glenda at another spot in which I had no particular interest in being. She talked way too much to begin with. But, an overplayed song came on, and she found it necessary to sing the song poorly, out loud; the Nickelback fans who claimed The Gin Blossoms were the best were also singing out loud, and that was the primary reason they received the Sebadoh treatment. Glenda’s singing was unbearable and she insisted that I should sing with her; even wanting to go karoaking. Shopping for a girlfriend, the bad singer is akin to walking down an aisle and some product has one of those annoying displays that start talking the moment you walk by…such as shitty ass Spam. Any product that adopts this terrible ploy of marketing, I will boycott and no longer purchase any of their products; Spam sucked to begin with.

I also do not like talking on the phone. In fact, I hate it. Thinking about talking on the phone makes me nervous and I suffer from anxiety attacks whenever the phone rings at work. One position that is out of the question for me would be a receptionist who answers phones—that’s right up there with working at a coleslaw specialty restaurant. Another reason I hate talking on the phone is because I have a pre-paid phone with limited minutes. But, I get unlimited text. A new phone is of no interest to me, and I feel the advancements of the phone have fallen into dangerous hands. Too many people spend more than 85% of their time with their phone; now, you can watch TV shows on your phone…that’s worst case scenario for The Grand Scheme of Things Board Committee.

Felicia wanted to talk on the phone. We had texted each other, but she wanted to gab on the phone for awhile because it was easier. This is fine—once in a while. She and I had a wonderful conversation. Unfortunately, my minutes expired and the call was cut off short.

Once I replenished my minutes, she called again. Our first conversation was fine, but none of the rest of them was. She was calling just to be calling—shit she could have texted. Even though I liked her, I was quickly growing weary of her because she was using up all my minutes. At first, I wanted to impress her, but soon, I wanted her to stop calling. Whenever I saw she was calling, I would instantly become irritated. Despite the fact she was cute and we shared some common interests, I stopped answering the phone altogether.

The day was fast approaching when I would have to return to court, and I had nothing taken care of. I had intended to use my state taxes to straighten everything out, but that too became a debacle. Once again, I had to return to two different court rooms to try and resolve the issue. I had given up and was simply going to request payment options rather than fight a losing battle.

Same shit, the same women who ganged up on me before. I have to say, the chick who called the case number was pretty hot, even though she looked vicious. But, I decided that she may be the answer to all my problems. If I could somehow hook up with her, I would not only have a decent girlfriend to share a lifetime of love and happiness with, but maybe she could resolve my court issues as well.

I arrived early, and when I signed in, I tried to schmooze in on her. I complimented the way she looked, and paid her a massive amount of flattery in everything she said. Surprisingly, she was interested in me too. This was the exact opposite of our first encounter, and before long we were laughing with each other—even had a prolonged touch of each other’s hand.

Then came the other defendants and they immediately started cock blocking. Even though she was interested in me, they tried to take over and barge in. An officer entered the court room and he too was trying to flirt with her, and told the others to go sit down. He put his arm around her and she looked uncomfortable—this was sexual harassment I thought. All rise! In walked the judge and he didn’t even sit down. He started cock blocking too. It’s as if people are being paid somewhere to ruin any chance of me obtaining love and happiness. Part of me, just to be an ass, was going to fight this case, fight all these mother fuckers, beat my tickets, protest the whole government, the state, the federal cock suckers and cock blockers, bring them all down, and run off with my newfound love, the woman who called my case #446-22973.

Just like shopping for other products, with girlfriend shopping, you have to beware about scams, shady sales associates, and those seeking other intentions. Melinda was decent looking, a bit loose with her personality, and was stoned on the couch wearing a robe that revealed personal privacy. She talked, laughed, smoked, and drank wine right out of the body. This girl had been sultry, seductive, a temptress, but seemed to be giving way to alcohol consumption.

When she got up to use the bathroom, I snuck into her kitchen and peeked in the refrigerator. Just as when shopping for a car you have to analyze certain aspects under the hood, same goes for girlfriend shopping. There would be nothing worse than selecting a new girlfriend just to find out she has coleslaw in the refrigerator. Coleslaw was the primary thing I was inspecting, but I also wanted to check and see what other sort of things this person had.

Her refrigerator was most of the way empty. There was a bottle of cranberry juice, miscellaneous bottles of condiments, four eggs that I guessed was expired, the severed head of a human corpse in which she had decapitated (I guessed this to be in there for less time than the eggs), an open box of baking soda for preservatives, and what really caught my attention, a paper plate containing a portion of meat loaf and a couple side dishes wrapped up in plastic wrap. I peeked around the corner to make sure she wasn’t looking, removed the paper plate and carefully examined it to see what the other side dishes were—mashed potatoes and green beans. I do not really like green beans, but I felt safe knowing there was no coleslaw in the refrigerator.

I didn’t want to look to suspicious or for her to know that I had just looked through her refrigerator, but there was something in that fridge that I could not stop thinking about. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten dinner, but something about that meat loaf smelled really good. Then I grew even more suspicious of her intentions. She was never going to eat that meat loaf; she was going to allow it to go to waste. “I’ve always wanted to see a group of bands go on tour together—called the Thanksgiving tour,” I told her without sounding suspicious, “featuring Meat Loaf, Korn, The Cranberries, and Bread.”

“And Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band,” she added.

She was lying on the couch and asked me to come sit with her. Her monkey ass was taking up the whole couch lying across the whole thing and she made no effort to get up. I sat in the middle cushion, slightly on the edge of the seat because I did not want to sit on her. Somewhere in the midst of this, I was growing really perturbed not only because she was going to allow that meat loaf go to waste but I wondered how the fuck she thought Bob Seger fit into that whole last equation; I was prepared to confront her on this.

When I sat on the couch, she put her arm around my waist, rubbed my leg and stuck her hand up my shirt. She pulled my shirt up, raised herself up and started kissing me on the back…aggressively going in for the kill. While she kissed me, she moaned in pleasure… “mmmm,” she said while she was kissing my body, “I fucking love Bob Seger.” As she was cramming her hand down my pants, she asked me erotically, “do you like Bob Seger?”

“He’s OK, I guess.”

She shoved me down on the couch and pounced on top of me. After a few minutes of forcefully kissing me wherever she desired, she got up off of me…which was fine by me, because I wasn’t prepared yet. “I want to fuck you while listening to Bob Seger.”

“Great,” I thought; there were only a couple decent Bob Seger songs that I liked and several that I hated. If she put on Old Time Rock and Roll, I was leaving. She went back into somewhere, but I’m not sure where, and she was taking forever. Therefore, I utilized this as an opportunity to snatch the plate of meat loaf out of her refrigerator. Possibly after eating, maybe I would be in a better mood.

I opened the refrigerator door, quickly unwrapped the plate, and removed the meat loaf from the plate. The rest of the shit I didn’t care about, and I hastily wrapped it back up and pushed in towards the back next to the severed head. When I closed the refrigerator door, she was standing in the kitchen with an axe. It startled me, and I hurriedly crammed the meat loaf into the front pocket of my jeans.

She looked intimidating, and I abruptly apologized and told that I was just hungry, and that I would make her a new meat loaf on Friday. However, this psycho bitch swung the axe at me and nearly fucking killed me. Her monkey ass chased me around the house with an axe, and the only how I escaped was I beamed her in the face with the helping of meat loaf. I never saw a bitch get so frantic over some God damn shitty ass mother fucking meat loaf.

Sadly, an important specification when shopping for a new or used girlfriend is breasts. Boobs are one of the items that make a woman a woman, and are equally as important as color of the interior for a car. In general, I prefer smaller boobs, but a woman with bigger titties I will at least look at and take into consideration. Unfortunately, where the two comparisons differ, women’s breast would be similar to every single car interior looking at decent—even your least favorite color. A woman walked in Walgreen’s and her titties were enormous. It was virtually impossible for these things not to be the first thing anybody noticed about this lady. They stuck straight out, and she even put forth immense effort to make them stand out even more.

My ass didn’t even need anything at Walgreen’s, but went in there anyway just because I saw her enter the store. I was trying to be inconspicuous with following her, I wasn’t trying to be creepy or actually talk to her, I just wanted to look at those titties again and to see if they were for real. She was standing in the aisle examining mouthwash and toothpaste and that shit. When I walked by, she spotted me and felt that she need to stick those things out further than what they already were. Upon arching her back, her titties smashed into the mouthwash display and crashed all of them onto the floor.

Naturally, I stopped to assist her picking them up. This was one of the greatest moments of my life because while we were both bending over to clean up the bottles of mouthwash, I could see down her shirt. She must have taken titty steroids or something. Furthermore, she did not mind me looking down her shirt and seemed to enjoy it. The more I looked down her shirt, the more she tried to show them off. When she put the mouthwash back on the shelf, and turned to the left, she knocked all of the toothbrushes off the rack.

Occasionally, people will live up their billing. Serena claimed to be a wild girl and insinuated that she might be too crazy for me. I doubted her, but first she challenged me to drink shots with her. Then, she wanted to engage in violent confrontations with random people walking down the street; I wasn’t up for this either.

She was a loudmouth and was constantly trying to start altercations with people. If somebody said something to her in regards to her wanting to drink whiskey out of the bottle, exposed on the public sidewalk, she would cuss at them and challenge the assailant to a fight. Insisting that I was a pussy, she pulled me close to her and pinned me against a brick wall. She guzzled a swig of the Jack Daniel's and spit it in my face. I was totally unsure what she was planning, but somebody drove by and honked their horn at us.

“Fuck you!” she yelled flipping them the middle finger.

These people shouted back at her, and they were screaming back and forth at each other. The girl in the backseat of the car said that she was going to kick her ass, and Serena chased after her. The moment she ran into the road, another car blew its horn… that’s when I heard brakes screeching followed by a loud crash.

Upkeep & Maintenance
Unique Features
Fun Destructive Habits
Girlfriendfax History Report
Unsure if she had a job; may have a different personality when (if) sober; danced to whatever was playing, regardless; could potentially beat up most guys, me especially.
End Result:
Struck by a moving vehicle; thus making her unique.

The shots she made me drink had kicked in and I was too drunk to deal with the police. Furthermore, I hardly knew Serena anyway. This was the just beginning of one of these rare crazy nights. Staggering down the street, I met Patty who invited me to a party with her friends.

More drinks were conducted, and before long Patty was extremely drunk. She kept trying to kiss me, but I have morals and do not like to take advantage of women when they are drunk. Soon, I also was way too drunk. Once the room started spinning, I got sick and threw up in the bathroom. Patty barged in the bathroom and started making out with me the moment I was finished throwing up. My mouth still tasted of vomit after taste, and I found it disgusting that she wanted to kiss me in this state. After a few more minutes of making out, I had to throw up again. She got on top of me on the bathroom floor and I still had puke on my bottom lip. Then, my puke got into her mouth and that’s all I could taste or smell. I got so sick that I started throwing up blood. When I got that sick, she thought I was gay and left.

Being as I didn’t know anybody at this party, I left. I was fucking trashed and had no clue where I was. It seemed like 49 miles, but I had only walked about 5 blocks and could barely stand. I had to stop somewhere to sit down, went to the first place I saw, and it just so happened to be a gay bar.

Again, people just don’t know when to stop in terms of getting somebody intoxicated to take advantage of sexually. I was only in there because I could not even walk and had just thrown up; by most standards this is considered drunk enough. Several guys circled around me, rubbing on me in shit. Somebody gave me a glass of water and I drank it.

The moment I drank it, a girl got shitty with the group and dragged me out of there, claiming “she saw that.” About that time, everything started spinning worse and the world was fading in and fading out.

I woke up the next morning in her bed and did not even remember how I got there or who she was. When I awoke, her arm was around me, I was clothed except my shirt and pants were unbuttoned, and she was only wearing a t-shirt and a pair of panties. Her leg was propped around me and she was lightly humping me while she was caressing my skin under my shirt.

She was pretty, although I had no recollection whatsoever who she was or how we got back here. As I was trying to remember last night, it dawned on me that I went to a bar, drank some water, and must have been ruffied.

“You didn’t really have to ruffie me. I was already drunk enough and you’re really not that bad looking. It was kind of waste of one of your date rape drugs, and you could have saved it for a later date with somebody who wasn’t drunk.” She took offense and informed me that I was ruffied at the gay bar; she “rescued” me.

My Saviour
Upkeep & Maintenance
Taste in Music
Fun Destructive Habits
Girlfriendfax History Report
Value dropped slightly because she claimed I owed her "big time"; have no idea what took place at her house and was not thinking coherently when I awoke; claimed I wasn't allowed to leave until I repaid my debt; not a fast runner. Probably should have hit that but wasn't prepared or functioning properly. Once the effects wore off, thought it about extensively.
End Result:
Threatened that I am in deep shit if she sees me out again.

I had considered the notion that I should avoid obtaining a girlfriend until I leave Milwaukee. Denise said she was planning on moving soon too, and perhaps that was an option I should consider when girlfriend shopping. My goal is to move to New York, so was hers, and she suggested that we could be roommates and help each other out.

For the most part, she had nothing but superior qualities. However, if a person purchases one Hyundai and it turns out to be piece of shit, that person will no longer buy another Hyundai. I moved to Austin with a girl then Milwaukee with a different girl and had the same drastic results. I moved to Asheville by myself and had success, and somewhat longed to be with my friends again. When I move to New York (or Portland), I had already vowed that I was going alone and furthermore determined that I was never going to move with a woman again unless we were perfect together. Even though we had much in common, I had to view wanting to move together the same way I view eating coleslaw with a Nickelback fan. Maybe not that bad, but the past had a negative effect on my present.

Ideally, for me, a small venue concert should be considered the ultimate girlfriend superstore. At these events, I can generally find everything I am seeking in a girlfriend, except for a few minor details. Approachability is often an issue, or some of them can be the occasional sausage fest. Unfortunately, most shows, all of the women are taken. It is equivalent to going to a car lot with the greatest selection imaginable—but all of the vehicles say “SOLD” on the windshield. At this show, every single girl here was with her boyfriend. Except one:

Morgan simply took me straight to her bedroom. She was in the process of telling me some story about her and some of her friends getting stranded at a night club in Denver. But, I was losing interest in the story and concentrating on the task at hand. I was in her bedroom, and she started removing her clothes. She took off her shirt, and the whole time she was casually discussing this story about some bloke in Denver who got a flat tire. Then, she took off her bra and sat next to me on the bed. Her breasts were pretty much what I was in the market for, and I put my arm around and started caressing her back and kissed her shoulder.

She jumped up, startled, and covered her breasts. What the hell was going on? Was it an awful kiss? Morgan asked me, as if she were shocked, “you mean you’re not gay?” When she found I wasn’t gay, I had to turn around and she put her shirt back on. Gay guys have it made.

People always ask me where I’m from; I hate answering that question. Then, they ask me what made move to Milwaukee; I hate that question even worse. I’ve lived in a few places since 2008 and it’s a long story. It’s an even longer story explaining what made me move here—I have to talk about Jen and how I got dumped. That leads to the next question, do you like Milwaukee. It’s OK, I stayed at least. I rarely reveal that sometimes I feel as if this is the worst trip that I’ve ever been on; I feel so broke up, that I want to go home. Unfortunately, I have no idea where home is anymore.

Often, people try to be nice, and many of them will talk horribly about Jen. That’s not particularly in my best interest—I’m over that and I was the one at fault. There are people like Tabitha who think that Milwaukee, WI should be rated #1 in every single category possible. According to her, Milwaukee, WI has the #1 music scene in the world, the most ideal place to make independent movies, all of the women here are my perfect companion, and the Brewers have won more Super Bowls and NBA championships than anybody; also according to Tabitha, Milwaukee has the #1 worst crime rate, the #1 worst smog, the worst traffic in the world, and the most corrupt police department; also according to Tabitha, it is not very cold here ever.

The poor women’s liberation movement has suffered some serious insulting circumstances in the today’s world. Although many women claim to be too intelligent to fraternize with douchy men, too often a woman will fall for stupid lines. There are way too many incidents of women believing lies that guys have laid upon them just to attempt to win them over. To make matters even worse, many women today are too easily impressed…and the aspects they find most impressive are often lies.

Somebody once suggested that he frequently lied to girls; claimed it was easy to hook up with girls—all he had to state was that he either played in a band or owned his own business. This person does not look at all like a musician or a business owner; any girl to fall for this would have to be extremely stupid and only following norms that were suggested to her on television.

I’m a piss poor liar and too honest to ever do such a thing. Furthermore, I do not support it either. Melanie was the type who was easily impressed and could be easily influenced as well. But, simply by looking at her, I did not know this—because I too am stupid and naive.

She looked adequate, and spoke of wonderful people and excellent surroundings. Apparently, several of her friends had connections, quality film equipment (supposedly eager to make a movie as well), and even played in a band.

I met her friends, and it took me less than five minutes to realize Melanie had fallen for some bullshit and was overly impressed with absolutely nothing. Her friend Scott had a camera on his phone and they made an unwatchable video they tried to put on Youtube, but could not figure out how to upload it. The video sucked and featured a Nickelback song.

Taste in Music
Mutual Interest
Girlfriendfax History Report
Possibly could have made her believe that I was a porn star; may had been the 114th to achieve this; she previously told her friends that every guy she ever dated was a porn star.
End Result:
Told I was headed on a mission to the moon; she requested that I call her when I get back.

I never got into to Rugby. While discussing various sports with some customers at the bar, I commented that Rugby was slow and reminded me of watching fat gay orgy porn. Most people laughed about this, but Wendi did not. She claimed that I didn’t know shit about rugby and that any rugby player could easily kick my scrawny ass. Indeed, Wendi, I confessed that I did not know shit about rugby. Being as I am 5’10, 128 pounds, a professional rugby player being able to kick my ass wasn’t saying much. Her claims to justify rugby as a valid sport were countered with my smart ass remarks; all the rest of the customers laughed at my jokes. When she stood up, that’s when I saw that she was wearing a rugby shirt.

Wendi left angrily, but waited for me to get off work and followed me to the bus stop. She attempted to shove me out in front of a moving vehicle, but the car swerved and missed…shows how stupid she was; a basketball fan would have been more successful. After she had me down on the ground trying to strangle me, I decided that I maybe needed to add “rugby fan” to my deal breaker list.

Taste in Music
Mutual Interest
Girlfriendfax History Report
Good thing she was dumber than a rock and obviously an amateur because otherwise I might be dead; has refused to pay for the medical treatment and yet to even apologize; doubtful ex-boyfriends (if any) give her any shit (assuming they are still alive). Possibly abusive.
End Result:
Woman officer pulled her off of me; laughter, but no arrests were made.

To most, Jenna and I probably seemed like an ideal couple. After meeting her, I figured that my girlfriend shopping days were finished and I had finally found the most suitable selection possible. She was beautiful, and even was in the category of what I defined beautiful…which differs than most people’s selection. Her personality was excellent and everything seemed perfect, she even had quality breasts.

She and I were on the same wavelength: went out with the same regularity, went to bed around the same time, woke up around the same time, and drank and smoked at the same pace. Neither of us was overly cheerful to go some douchy bar, nor was too depressed to ever face the world. Best of all, she was extremely creative with a warped sense of humor. It should have been perfect.

However, sexually, nothing ever happened. For whatever reason, it never came up. We did not even kiss, despite the fact we hung out constantly for several days. Not only did we never kiss, we never even made physical contact. I have no idea why, it just never seemed appropriate to even hold hands with her.

She and I remained friends, but I had to hang out with her less frequently because I was shopping for a new girlfriend. Strangely, even though we never connected on an intimate level, I did not feel comfortable seeking the companionship of another woman while in her presence. At the same time, it would have required too strenuous of effort to ever be intimately attached with her.

I never figured out how to handle a staring situation. Two younger girls boarded the bus and sat in my proximity…I was in a sideways seat and they sat above me in the first row of the back. Every time I glanced back, they were staring at me, and making no attempt to look away. I was wearing headphones and was not sure if they were saying anything about me; therefore, I wasn’t sure if they were making fun of me or thought I was hot. However, I was uncomfortable with them staring; at the same time, the one on the left was hot and would have been elated if her inability to keep her eyes off me was due to sexual attraction. Rather than speak to them, which I never do, I tried my best to comprehend what their issue might have been.

To begin, I did happen to glance back first, so maybe they thought I was staring at them. But, as stated downtown Milwaukee is the continuation of a douchy suburb and the biggest douches in town are those who come from Waukesha and various other small towns in Wisconsin (mainly to attend college). These people have never seen some items that are commonplace for those residing in the city, such as civilization. Downtown Milwaukee is New York City to them, and it’s the place where they can see things that they’ve only dreamed of, or seen on television—such as indoor plumbing. Should one of these creatures come across a person who does not own a TV and obviously not influenced by its imprudence, it may seem as if they’ve seen a person from another planet. Whereas downtown Milwaukee is New York City to them, I am C3-PO.

Not having virus protection on my computer has really put a damper on my sex life. Browsing internet porn without virus protection is akin to having sex without a condom. I hate having to think about actual people during what I consider mind-blowing sex (my own hand dominates the top 1000 in terms of best sex I’ve ever had). To make matters worse, when seeking a woman to fantasize about—usually just random people walking down the street—girls talking on cell phones are immediately disqualified. Holding a cell phone in her hand makes a person even least attractive than a noticeable fever blister. In terms of girlfriend shopping, spotting a potential suitor with a cell phone is along the same lines as scoping out a vehicle during a period in which black smoke emits from the exhaust.

While sitting on a park bench, shopping, three women walked passed me in a row, and all of them were yapping on their cell phones. Perhaps this was a sign that all women talk non-stop on their cell phones and I either had to make adjustments in my own personal tolerability index or make preparations for being single for life. Being as I could not afford to update my Norton anti-virus subscription anytime soon, I opted to attempt to become more tolerant to cell phone usage. To practice for this drastic change in lifestyle, I arose from the park bench and followed some girl around and listened in on her cell phone conversation.

What a crock of shit this turned out to be. Not only was her squeaky white girl voice incredibly annoying, but so was her long list of topics of conversation. This bitch was unable to even put together a coherent sentence. In the 13 minutes in which I followed her, she said the word “like” 406 times, “oh my God” 192 times, and described 114 dull items as “amazing.” I felt sorry for whatever miserable bastard was on the other end of that line, and if he/she had prepaid, his/her minutes were fucked. She talked for six minutes about one incident that could not have lasted longer than two minutes in actuality. Once they started making plans to hang out at all the places I hate, and were going to arrive via bus, I pictured that torturous ride to work with a bus full of douches.

It dawned on me that if I were in a relationship with a bus driver that my life would be nothing short of spectacular. I would enjoy the benefits of free rides to work, and maybe even possibly attend the company picnic with the rest of the bus drivers. While delving into the fantasy of going out on a date with the bus driver, she would pick me up in the bus nonetheless, it dawned on me that I did not need anti-virus protection after all. The thought of being all alone with my dream woman on the bus, riding through the city streets, and I could sit in the front with my head in-between her legs while she plowed down pedestrians carelessly wandering into the road only to be struck by a speeding bus…that’s fucking hot! We could even take the bus down deserted streets and have a little fun in the back. But, if we went to a show or something, parking might prove a bit difficult. But, that was no worry either, because I am certain that my dream lover would be able to enjoy discounted bus rides the same way I get 70% off Pabst in a bottle at The Cheese Bar.

That day, I decided that I was going to stand in the front, like many other stupid sons of bitches do, and flirt with the bus driver. It was going to be a special day!

There is a section in the back of The Onion newspaper called Savage Love written by Dan Savage (the column is posted in other publications as well). Recently, there was a letter in which he took somewhat of a less comedic stance and seemed to be genuinely irked at this lady. She was complaining about wanting to try new things sexually and her husband was a dud…this was on the premise of this book she had read. He bitterly advised her that she needed to build a time machine, go back in time, and rather than marry some guy who she perceived as “normal” because he had a job and all that shit, she should not have pushed away the boy with the foot fetish, the eccentric desires, and who was perceived as “probably gay.” Savage stated that he had heard about this too often and listed quite a few different scenarios involving this case. He also referred to these “normal” guys as strictly missionary duds in the bedroom.

However, men have to ask themselves: What’s worse? Your wife going out and getting fucked for about an hour by some guy like me in order to fulfill some sexual desires? Or, to be dumped completely, forever, in favor of some guy with a good job and conventional thought processes?

Girls that go for the normal guy with the good job are merely doing what they are told. At that time, they have no sexual ambitions and only pretend to be sexy in order to land some career oriented guy so that her lazy ass can stay home and cook fried chicken in the kitchen. These types of women have no interest in me…yet. Unfortunately, I do not like the role of home wrecker because of my moral beliefs and my lack of desire to have sloppy seconds.

There have been numerous times when I have been walking down the street, standing on the corner, or even in line at a restaurant, and girls will glance me sexual looks while walking hand-in-hand with their boyfriends. Once upon a time, I viewed them as either making fun of me, or sluts who wanted to fuck anything. But, since reading the article, I have noticed a trend. These women who flaunt me these looks all seem to have the same boyfriend; and thanks to Dan Savage, I now know what these guys are like in bed. Before, I would try to shy away from the situation feeling sorry for the guy because his girlfriend obviously wished to be unfaithful, but now, I view them as my arch nemesis.

Ashley and I were not hitting it off very well either. She was dressed in sexy attire, and the back of her shirt was open and revealed her bra (I pictured myself unfastening her bra before even the first kiss, before even taking her home). However, she was stupid as shit, and I assumed that she was the one talking to the chick I followed on her cell phone.

Needless to say, some bro once again decided to perform some good old’ fashioned cock blocking…not that I was feeling her much anyway. He spoke of his job and his repertoire was boring, dull, lifeless, and exactly like what corporate America wanted out of their glossy mindless white sheep.

She left with him, but I knew it wasn’t over yet. As she was leaving, I thought to myself, “Have fun with your strictly missionary dud, 10 years from now you’ll be crawling back to me ready to discover that I probably wasn’t gay.” And because this son of a bitch cock blocked, I vowed that I was not going to feel guilty for fucking his wife in 2022. Of course, at my rate, that would actually be the next time I get any action, and that few hours of pleasure she would be seeking would be dwindled to just a few seconds…serves her right. I almost made a commitment to remain abstinent until then just to be an even lousier lay than his boring strictly missionary monkey ass.

Upon making this realization, I decided that I needed to correct Contradiction #4,868. Being as I have a somewhat hyperactive sex drive, too many times in my life I have pushed women away because they too had hyperactive sex drives. My reasoning behind this, however, did not involve “judging” a woman for her high sex drive…I am perfectly fine with a woman being a “slut” and do not consider that to be a derogatory statement.

Searching for a girlfriend, I met Candace, Candi for short, who was an extraordinary slut. I could tell just by looking at her that she was extremely good in bed, and she would be able to withstand having intercourse 3-7 times daily…which is what I prefer. Furthermore, with her, I would no longer need to update my virus protection. But, I would need to upgrade my STD protection, as that is a concern of mine. Condoms don’t bother me though, as I’ve grown used to them. The only thing I do not like about them is the way they make the coochie taste should I decided to stop and have a light snack during intercourse.

Also, I was worried about the risk of children; many women with high sex drives have up to 23 kids, with 23 different fathers. Or, after having sex, in which I did all the work and she had more orgasms than me, she would insist that I owe her money. And the worst, especially with the way my life goes, there will be numerous ex-boyfriends who will cause drama, want her back, cock block, and try to lure her with money just so they can have boring missionary sex for 1 minute and 12 seconds.

I put all of those negations aside, viewed them as stereotypes, and approached her. Part of me was even mad at myself for being stereotypical because that’s not what I am all about.

Fun Destructive Behavior
Taste in Music
Mutual Interest
Girlfriendfax History Report
Several douchy guys attempting to get with her; ass felt nice; boobs felt wonderful; smooth thighs; warm in-between her legs. However, her retaliation not as comforting; punches caused bruises and bloody lip; she stomped my face extremely hard too.
End Result:
Claimed she would fuck everyone else there except for me.

The build I am most attracted to is “athletic.” However, I do not like overly muscular, considering a tie for #2 is “a little extra baggage ( but not much- AKA pleasantly plump)” or skinny. Body builder physique is in the same category as obese for me.

The bar is not the ideal place to meet women with athletic build, so I decided to go shopping at a tennis club. I had a coupon for one free day, it was nice out, and it seemed like the right choice. I went to the tennis club and awaited a beautiful woman to play tennis with me.

I did not have to wait long, and Stephanie inquired just what in the fuck I was doing there; she had never seen me before and thought I was an intruder. She was a fucking bitch about it, and I told her all about the coupon I had. After she rolled her eyes at me, I challenged her to a game of tennis. This was not how I was planning on starting this affair, and I now viewed Stephanie as a cock blocker. Ideally, a girl would be nice to me and we have a fun friendly game in which we got to know each other afterwards. Thanks to this stupid, obviously neurotic whore, I had to actually engage in a serious tennis match and put this loudmouth bitch in her place.

It should also be known, I suck at tennis. In fact, I’ve never even played. I don’t even know what the fuck I was doing there.

It should also be known, I sometimes have a big mouth, and have a tendency to think that I am masterful at things I am not.

It should also be known, that women who try to act all big and bad, usually, are no good at sports such as tennis, and only try to talk tough to cover up her flaws.

It should also be known, that because I have only been in abusive relationships, every girlfriend I have ever had has physically abused me, and that since most girls can kick my ass in a fist fight, I do not have to go easy on them in things such as pool, rugby, or especially this bitch at tennis. I was going to show no mercy on her for talking to me like a piece of shit, and try to fucking cram the tennis ball down her throat.

I served the first ball and accidentally served it into the net. The second one also went into the net, and Stephanie started talking shit; I talked shit back and we got into an argument cussing at each other. "Fuck you, you're a stupid girl and proof as to why dumb hoes shouldn't even be permitted on the tennis court."

I hit the ball as hard as I could and fucking nailed it—right at her stupid bitchy ass. Um, she kind of hit it back at me and I had to jump out of the way to avoid getting beamed. Whenever she would hit it at me, I would shrivel up and flinch…just the sound of it coming off of her racket was intimidating enough.

The dumb whore claimed that we had to play until somebody won 7 games…didn’t want my coupon to go to waste. The games in which she served remain traumatic.

I feel that smoking prevents me from meeting numerous women. Also, I feel that I have to hide this horrendous habit and I do not like people to know that I smoke. It stinks and it makes my hands stink. However, writing this makes me want to go have a cigarette.

While walking down the street, Jana emerged from one of the buildings. She was elegantly dressed, and I assumed her professional business clothes cost more than my entire collection of personal belongings…since I have a bed now, this is up in the range of $500, assuming the price did not depreciate too much from carrying it home. She was also driving an expensive car. Jana looked good though, and I used her as motivation for me to quit smoking.

In a strange turn of events, she asked me for a light. I immediately found her to be even sexier, and the way she smoked was even more attractive. That said, I decided to consider having an elegant woman who smokes as a considerable option; maybe even Jana. At least something was discovered here, but some homeless people approached and started cock blocking. They asked to bum a cigarette in the worst way possible. I can’t stand people who try to bum cigarettes from me when I do not even know them; especially when they are cock blocking in the process. Then he tried to tell some stupid story about how he was stranded and needed some spare change.

Jana left, and I used this pathetic disgrace of a human being as more motivation to quit smoking. He is homeless because he has no clue how annoying he is, disrupted my potential happiness, and ruined my whole day…he was that asshole who everybody talked shit about because he was a shitty worker and untrustworthy (not all homeless people are like this; not all homeless people deserve sympathy).

Just by random chance, I had a celebrity encounter. In general, I have no fixation whatsoever with celebrities and they have no genuine appeal to me. She just happened to be walking down the same street as I, and we ended up walking around together, our hands even brushing up against each other’s periodically. I wasn’t sure if she was hitting on me or not, but she did approach me and start the conversation. We had a nice walk, a nice conversation, shared a few laughs, and I wondered if a person like me would have any shot dating somebody with this much prominence. Considering what I am seeking in life, it might be ideal for me to date a celebrity…being as she had connections, money, and more than likely be able to jump start my film making career.

With her, I could make movies, possibly even star her in them (and her friends, which would make casting easier) and before too long my unworthy fears would subside because I would be almost as famous as she is. This was perfect for me, and the next time our hands brushed, I actually held it. She was happy with her hand in mine, and I felt that we were on to something special.

Rachael Ray
Taste In Music
Unique Features
Interest in Me
Girlfriendfax History Report
Subject of fascination for many years; frequently recurring celebrity on NC-17 Soundtraxxx; saves money on food; supposedly does not tip well; constantly chipper and pleasant- seemingly trouble free; obviously does not relate to Joy Division.
End Result:
Deal breaker: referred to KFC coleslaw as "Yumm-O".

Donna was out celebrating when I met her. She had just graduated from law school and was en route to a happy life. A law graduate! That was exactly what I should have been considering from the onset. Donna would be able to assist me with all my legal issues, fight my battles, she made good money, and in return, I would be able to offer her nothing…this was perfect. Plus, she was decent looking too.

It did not take long for me to approach her for she was already happy and willing to talk to anybody who would listen. I congratulated her on a job well done, and wished her the best with all of her success. Also, I suggested that she and I should become best friends forever (“BFF’s” she enthusiastically replied) and told her how I never had a fair trial. It was funny, I wasn’t complaining, and told my tragic story about the court system with much humor—her friends thought I was hilarious, and one of them kept giving me the eye (she wasn’t a law school graduate though, so fuck her).

Best of all (for Donna) she already had secured a position with a law firm. She did not deal with criminal matters though and was a divorce attorney. The only thing I could picture was her taking me for all I was worth, and I would have to walk back to Big Lots to carry home a new bed.

Mutual Interest
Girlfriendfax History Report
* High income represents excellent value while still together/any quarrel could lead to lifelong poverty; as a divorce lawyer, could not comfortably cheat on her should a situation arise; could do anything she desired without repercussions, while I would remain on tight leash- no different than any other circumstance. Difficult to get rid of; "Til death do us part"- she means that shit.
End Result:
Physical abuse is more appealing when its free.

My day off was a nice day and I decided to take a nice walk and listen to music on headphones. After walking about a mile, I ducked down an alleyway to have a cigarette. A girl came into the vicinity, stood next to me, and she too lit a cigarette. We were both wearing headphones, and I had no idea what to say to her. Admittedly, it was sort of awkward having this random stranger standing next to me, especially in a position where neither of us seemed interested in talking…she appeared deeply into her music as well.

After the cigarette, I walked away, sort of glancing at her and nodding. She did not pay me any attention, but followed me. Again, I walked several more blocks and she remained behind me several feet away. I sensed that she was following me and might be working for the IRS. Feeling uncomfortable about being followed (it’s my job to follow people, not hers), I sat down on the nearest park bench and awaited her to pass.

However, she didn’t pass. Instead, she sat next to me on the park bench. She sat fairly close to me as well, and if my leg moved even four inches, it would brush up against hers. We both sat there on that bench listening to our music on the headphones. I figured that I maybe should at least say ‘hello’ to her and maybe we could have a conversation. When I glanced up at her though, she was looking the other way. I looked the other way, but could feel her looking at me. There I sat, listening to great music, contemplating what to say to her…still unsure if she was attracted to me or if she was government spy staking me out. This is definitely something I needed to ask about and was deciding how to go about doing it.


Its pitch black outside and we are both still sitting here on the bench. Neither one of us has gotten up nor have spoken a single word to each other. It was broad daylight out when we sat down.


It’s way late in the night and we’re still sitting next to each other. The batteries in my mp3 player died long ago. Even though I still have my headphones on, I can hear crickets chirping in the night. She is still next me, and her music player seems to be working still. I did not wish to get up until she did. One, because I did not want her following me, and two, I enjoyed the comfort of having her beside me.


It’s morning. I woke up on the park bench and had fallen asleep in a seated position. She was still beside me snoozing as well. The bus was coming, and I simply jumped on the bus.

Some girls go out in public still dressed in their pajamas. Anna sat next to me on the bus, and she was wearing Winnie the Pooh pajama pants. Part of me was drawn to this because there was a sense of comfort. She was obviously content with both her appearance and her lifestyle to the extreme that she was willing to be cozy anywhere she went. However, I also suspected that she might be lazy and desired to spend too much time in bed. But, if she wished to spend ample time in bed, that might indicate that she had a high sex drive or at least enjoyed cuddling.

I doubted that she could handle adversity. Because she had gone to this extreme to remain comfortable in all aspects of life, I figured that if she ever had to endure something undesirable, her reactions could include hysteria, projectile vomiting, and ultimately, explosion of the head. On the other hand, maybe nothing bad ever happened to her and she was living the perfect life. I wondered how my luck would change if I walked around still in my pajamas.

We disembarked the bus together and I walked with her, and we conversed about nothing in particular. A road was blocked off and she cut through that area. I found this peculiar, but was impressed as well. She was so unwilling to compromise comfort that she was not even going to take the long way around to her destination…unlike me who did not wish to violate the warnings due to the fact that I would probably be arrested and charged with trespassing. I waved her goodbye and took the long way.

I had to walk all the way around. A random man was standing on the corner, smiling, "now that's a real woman; won't even allow road construction warnings to impede her happiness." He smiled pleasantly, as did I, as did the flock of bluebirds who flew down to the street beside us, singing happily.

When I reached the point in which the road was blocked on the other side, I saw her again. There she was, still in her Winnie the Pooh pajamas…only now she was also wearing a hard hat and operating a jack hammer demolishing the portion of the street that was being repaired.

Road Construction Worker
Taste In Music
Upkeep & Maintenance
Mutual Interest
Girlfriendfax History Report
Being the bitch in the relationship is more acceptable when girlfriend operates a jack hammer; the jack hammer erased all doubts about laziness and how she handled adversity. Might be expensive to insure; unsure about conversing road construction and cheese.
End Result:
Accidentally busted the sewage pipe before I could get her phone number.

Milwaukee, WI is the PDA capital of the world. This is not a lucrative award. I do not like PDA, find it utterly disgusting, and have noticed the ones who commit this horrendous act most frequently also happen to be the ugliest people on Earth. Too many times I have seen customers at my bar making out and at least one of them is old, fat, and gross. Desire to commit PDA is a bigger turn off than even cell phone usage, even worse than having attended a Nickelback concert.

There is nothing more annoying than seeing a girl latched onto to her boyfriend’s arm while seated in a public place, or having her head resting on his shoulder while he is trying to eat or drink. These girls are the poster children for “clingy” and are the ones to avoid by all means. I have no clue what would make a girl become so clingy and dependent, but seeing one tightly latched to some other guy is a full indicator that she is high maintenance and starved for attention. The guy has to devote every last second of his life to be with this twit and cannot even enjoy a decent meal without her constant need for affection. She’s like a God damn dog that constantly wants to play fetch.

I went on a date with Pamela. We had only met one time, but exchanged numbers and decided to go out. First date, rather than sit across from me like normal people, she sat right next to me at the booth, scooched in way to close, and her arm was latched to my leg. Needless to say, I was somewhat annoyed.

At the same time too, I was getting desperate for affection myself and tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Then I assumed those who do this are desperate. But, I did not wish to reduce my standards and be like the people I hated.

Maybe, she found me irresistible…she perhaps thought I was the hottest guy on Earth. I looked around and realized that I was the 7th hottest guy in the restaurant (there were 9 guys total in the restaurant). Then, I drew the conclusion that maybe she was afraid that I was going to ditch her. She became this clingy because she had been out on dates and the guy skipped out without paying.

Rather than feel sorry for her, thinking about this just gave me ideas. She was way too clingy and I was growing embarrassed sitting in there with her; she was a bit stupid too. Not only was she next to me, latched on to my leg, she stuck her hand up my shirt and even raised it right there in the restaurant, baring my torso. I felt that nobody in there was even remotely interested in seeing my gross ass body exposed and pulled my shirt back down, this went against my standards. I told her that I had to use the bathroom, and dipped out the back door.

My search for a new girlfriend has only led to disaster and despair. It’s been a terrible event and the only thing good that has come out of this ordeal is my invention for the ultimate girlfriend shopping superstore. Here, instead of mannequins, there are actual girlfriends…and it even comes equipped with a layaway department. As an added feature, there are sales associates on hand that allow you to customize you’re very own girlfriend; simply enter the specifications and requirement features you are searching for, and the girl of your dreams comes out of the printer. Also, there is even a dressing room where you can try out an array of girlfriends before making your selection. Best of all, there is even a used section, and shoppers may bring in their old girlfriends for down payment on a new one. Consumers may even stand patiently in the accessories section of the store and a girlfriend may even select him/her/it/they.

I dreamed this happened to me at Bayshore Mall, and I went home with the perfect girlfriend whom I purchased from The Girlfriend Superstore.

The polar opposite of the girlfriend superstore at Bayshore Mall is Benji’s Deli in Shorewood. This is where a person goes to eat and leave the establishment thanking the Lord Jesus Christ that he is still single. They have stellar hash browns, quite possibly the best hash browns in the history of the universe. But, more often than not, the women inside are as equally appalling as the hash browns are magnificent.

For the most part, the customers are completely unfuckable. On a scale of 1 to 10, in terms of looks, the average customer at Benji’s Deli is 0. I don’t recall ever seeing any woman in this establishment that I would even consider decent looking, and the clientele may even be more horrendous than even the Cheese Bar. One of the servers is even uglier than all the customers, and even more annoying. These women are more than likely not even on the market, and therefore are not even worth discussing. I am sure they are nice; they do have a couple other nice servers, but are not to be considered a potential option for a girlfriend…and this is strictly based on looks. It’s not to say they are ugly, they are simply not in my age range and are not even a person anybody in my category would even pursue…yet.

Just on looks, which let’s face it, that’s the first thing a shopper is going to consider, there are three employees at Benji’s deli worth taking into consideration. One of the three still has potential, and I have had a nice glimpse down her shirt before. The cashier is not that bad, but she is just not my type. And that brings us to the other server, whatever the fuck her name is.

Looks, from the onset, sure, she’s not that bad. However, she is so annoying, that her looks gradually loses its appeal. One day she came in and was talking on her cell phone about senseless rubbish, and that was enough of a deal breaker. She tried to claim that some guy hit on her and she was totally creeped out by this debacle. While I was waiting to check out, she held up the line by raging endlessly to the cashier and I missed the bus.

If those characteristics weren’t bad enough, I have never gone into Benji’s when she’s working and her not be talking. Whenever I go in there, I pray that neither she nor the fat annoying one are working; neither will stop talking—they think their heads will explode otherwise; neither have ever said anything interesting.

The primary topic for Whatever the Fuck Her Name Is’s conversation is her boyfriend, Trevor. She explains, with devout seriousness, all of the aspects regarding Trevor’s life. Should anything bad ever happen to Trevor, such as the day he came home tired because he had worked a 7 hour shift the previous day, it is a disaster. She will relate all of the details, with much sorrow, all of the ailments that Trevor is suffering. Anything great that happens to Trevor, such as the day he bought a box of cereal and saved 35 cents with a coupon he had, she will spell out all of the glory that entailed that wonderful joy—with the exact same voice she explains the hardships—such as the time Trevor attempted to purchase a different box of cereal at a different location but the coupon was, sadly, expired. I’ve never even met this mother fucker and I’ve heard all about Trevor’s dad…she does not even speak to me…I overhear this wretched stupid shit while I am trying to peacefully eat hash browns.

Trevor has to be one miserable son of a bitch for having to deal with this shit on a regular basis. Whatever the Fuck Her Name Is violates numerous standards when staking out what I am looking for in a girlfriend. To begin, she is obviously clingy and I am certain that whenever she and Trevor go out in public (maybe twice a month), she is latched on to his arm and wishes to make out as if they were at home. In my experience though, every time I have witnessed a female this devoted to a person like Trevor, 95% of the time she will cheat on him, and dump him out of the blue.

This should be obvious. For one, she is obviously easily influenced if she thinks Trevor is the great savior who will someday rule the world with his coupons. Meaning, anybody else could easily come along and make her think that he too is the savior and the possibility that she will buy into it is fairly high…and we know all about cock blockers at this point. Furthermore, since her entire world revolves around Trevor, and Trevor is not really anything special, the moment she discovers that there is more to life than Trevor, that will be the end of Trevor. Until then, she is even more annoying than the handicapped customer with the loud obnoxious laugh…at least he has an excuse, Whatever the Fuck Her Name Is does not. She is, nice, and a good enough server I suppose.

Many times, people will date people who share the same profession. Teachers date teachers, car salesman date car saleswomen, and managers from Pier 1 Imports have established the largest swinger’s club in America (citation not needed for obvious information). Colleen was also a bartender, and that immediately made her more lucrative. She scored high marks across the board, and we had an enjoyable time discussing the customers who piss us off the most frequently. It turned out that we pretty much hated people in general, and the general population was the #1 reason why we smoked cigarettes (she had recently smoked 6 packs in one day). We both hated people so much, that it turned out that we even hated each other.

While walking to the store early in the day, I passed this guy walking into his apartment building with a girl. They were holding hands and he escorted her inside the building. Later that day, I was walking the sidewalk again, and he was leading a different girl inside the building. A couple days later, I saw him again, making out with a different girl on the sidewalk.

I wondered what ploys he was utilizing to bring all of these women home with him; and all of them seemed at least moderately adequate.

This girl I sort of dug from the neighborhood happened to be walking to the bus stop the same time I was walking to the store. She and I walked to the bus stop together and it was the first time we met formerly. Melanie was cool and I felt a bit of a connection between us. We passed this person again and he was leading another girl into his apartment. I told her that she was the fourth girl I’ve seen this guy with this week. She laughed and it gave us something to joke about. Melanie said that dude was a piece of shit and all of the girls who went in there were obviously stupid hoes.

Whenever a woman brings that many guys to her apartment, although significantly way more common, she is perceived negatively by other guys. In many cases, a dude will direct hostility towards her because she is considered too easy or a slut. However, some guys will try to associate with her more frequently because they know it is an easy way to get laid. Guys are considered players, or pigs, depending on the mood. Melanie was the type who claimed him to be a pig—therefore I did not try anything on her en route to the bus stop.

Later that night, I saw this fucker coming out of his apartment with yet another girl.

I stopped in a café that I had never tried before, viewed the selection and went to the counter to make my purchase.

“My I pretty please have one reduced fat black cherry muffin?”

She gave me a dirty look, shook her head and said, “No.” I thought she was just joking at first, but then she just stood there staring at me and did not make any effort to retrieve anything from the case.

“Why not,” I asked innocently thinking this was awfully mean of her.

“Because, you’re too skinny. You’re not getting reduced fat anything. Pick out something else.”

I was taken aback by this and not sure how to respond. I mainly just wanted the black cherry flavor because regular places do not carry this type of muffin, but I did not feel the need to justify making my selection. Furthermore, it’s bothersome when people talk about my weight. If I were a fat blubbering slob, she would not have denied me three dozen chocolate donuts claiming that I was too fat. Instead, I felt I had to prove that I wasn’t that skinny.

“Not really,” I said trying to sound convincing, “I only appear to be skinny because I am wearing black with vertical stripes. I actually have a really huge massive gut.” “No you don’t,” she said annoyed with my presence still refusing to get me a muffin. “Yes I do, it hangs over my belt.”

The other girl who had been operating the register next to hers joined in and ganged up on me as if this were court, “I don’t believe you.”

“Nope, you’re lying” said the main girl who I had been talking, “then let’s see it.” I looked down at my belly then back up at her. This sort of behavior was a bit rude for a stupid bakery. “No,” I refused.

“Show it to us or you’re not getting anything.”

I shook my head and looked around to see if anybody else was approaching the line. Fine, but I found this ridiculous. I lifted up my shirt and showed them.

The two girls looked at each other and smiled. “What kind of muffin did you say you wanted?”

“May I pretty please, with sugar on top, purchase a reduced fat black cherry muffin?”

She retrieved it and rang me up for it. While she was ringing me up and I was paying, they kept smiling but did not comment. As I paid, I have no idea what the verdict was. But, I told them I was fat, and since she finally gave in and sold me the muffin after showing her my belly, I felt that I had validated my claim and proved my point. I am now officially fat.

Disaster had struck Milwaukee. There were nightmarish images of horrific scenes of a catastrophe that had been instilled upon a city. It was reminiscent to Hurricane Katrina striking New Orleans or famine in Somalia. Everywhere you looked, there were starving children with flies buzzing around them sitting in desolate yards. Houses were burning down, there was wreckage in the street, and some of the buildings were smoldering. The Milwaukee River flowed was flowing green toxic waste.

As the camera panned the terrifying images, a somber voice provided the narration. “Milwaukee, Wisconsin has been hit with one of the worst disasters in history. The entire city has been left in shambles as the casualties keep mounting. This is the aftermath of a Level 5 catastrophe. Last week, Nickelback was in town performing a concert.”

Why won’t they leave? Nobody should travel for Nickelback, but they do, because Milwaukee is the only place that will have them.

Lisa said she was from Chicago. I like Chicago better than Milwaukee. At least her being from Chicago, I could count on her to not have attended the Nickelback concert. But, she said that she lived in a suburb just south of Chicago. I told that I liked Chicago and that was I going there in July for the Pitchfork Festival. She had never heard of it. She had never heard of Union Park.

I asked her which suburb she lived in and she said it was just south of Chicago and that she was in town all week because she and friends went to the Nickelback concert. Her suburb was just 4 hours south of Chicago, 19 minutes north of Kentucky.

At age 24, Kayla had that Barbie doll princess look. She was what many people commonly considered the perfect image and defined beautiful by ordinary TV obsessed Americans. Kayla was still 24. In order to obtain that image, with no edge whatsoever, everything in life had to be perfect.

Some serious shit went down two days ago. Kayla no longer had the perfect life, even though she still had that polished glossy image. This went beyond waking up with a pimple or the eyeliner tip malfunctioning…it was seriously some serious shit that went down—massive serious shit. Her house was repossessed, she was evicted, her father was convicted of child pornography, and her mother was diagnosed with a terrible disease. Everything that could have gone wrong, did…in a two day span. To make matters even worse, the toaster her family had recently purchased received a negative review in Consumer Reports...turned out it was a piece of shit.

Because of this, Kayla was soon going to develop an edge. However, she did not have it yet. It was difficult to see this Barbie looking princess engaging in destructive habits because her life suddenly changed. She was drinking excessively and engaging in heavy drug use. The song actually sounded good to her, as she was fading in and out of reality.

Many people have that story about the one that got away. Me too, except I never dated her. The most attraction I had ever felt for another person was to a girl named Gina who I worked with at Apple Spice Junction in Cincinnati. There was just something about that appealed to me heavily. In my opinion, we would have made the perfect couple and I could have seen us together forever; I definitely would not be girlfriend shopping now.

My fondness for Gina developed immediately. During her first week of work, we had a luncheon for the employees. A row of tables were scooted together, chairs had been line up, and I sat in the chair the farthest away from everybody else assuming that nobody wanted to sit next me.

I had arrived first, and was sitting by myself. The next person to enter, obviously, sat at the far opposite end. Gina came in next, and with all of the seats vacant and readily available, she sat right next to me. I saw hearts floating in the air, and felt like Forest Gump when Jenny let him sit next to her on the bus.

I even liked her when she insulted me, as she holds one of the more memorable indignities directed towards me. Jokingly, I claimed that I would be the ideal villain in a horror movie. There were numerous sharp knives in the restaurant, and in an attempt to toughen by image, I was Norman Bates-like with the knife. It did become a spectacle, as this other guy who worked there actually looked vicious holding the knife and he was giving me advice on how to look grueling holding a butcher knife. Everybody else was laughing, as we were taking turns providing menacing looks with the knife (his really was scary, mine, sadly, was not).

It was put to an abrupt halt when Gina approached, grabbed the knife out of my hand while I was attempting to appear intimidating, and belittlingly ordered, “Stop it; you’re going to cut yourself. Just go stand out front and try to look cute for the customers.” My dreams of being in horror movies vanished.

Most of the other workers did not like Gina. After that incident, people came up to me, saying remarks like, “fuck her, she’s a bitch, don’t take that shit.” However, I was not offended in the slightest least bit. I understood the humor she was conveying and found it quite comical. Whenever other people would complain about her, I always stood up for her. She was never bitchy to me, and I wasn’t sure if I even believed their stories. She was blunt honest too, which made her all the more better. She had looks, personality, and something about her that seemed to fit.

What happened to Gina? It turned out that she was engaged. Not only did she get married, they moved to Ireland after the wedding. I’ll never see or hear from her again.

Since I am not the “strictly missionary” type, and fall under the perceived category of what Savage labeled “probably gay”, I actually cannot have a girlfriend with a squeaky clean Girlfriendfax History Report. If her report is completely unblemished, than I run the risk of being her Trevor. At the same time though, I do not want to know all of the details of her sexual history. Disturbing visuals involving her and some other guy before is sickening. The past history should be listed under, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Occasionally, The Cheese Bar will have private events in which large parties can rent the entire bar for the evening. These are actually the best times to work. For private events, the patrons are significantly cooler, more attractive, and all around better tippers than average clientele of tourists who come in asking the three questions about cheese. We are trying to reach more of this clientele as people often make fun of The Cheese Bar before entering, but once inside they like place, good décor, great music, and fun bartenders. “You guys are awesome,” is the general consensus.

Samantha was part of the party who had reserved the place. Although most of the women were there with other dudes, she was one of the few single ones. Her Girlfriendfax History Report had only result, Trevor (what the fuck is with guys named Trevor these days?). The difference though, over a year ago, Trevor dumped her. When Trevor broke up with her (in which I vaguely suspected it was to be with some girl who worked at Benji’s Deli), her life resembled that of post-Nickelback Milwaukee which reminded most of a nuclear holocaust.

She approached the bar frequently, and sat in a chair to talk to me whenever she wasn’t chit-chatting with her friends and family from the graduation party. I sensed moderate attraction, but at the same time she was still not over Trevor—and that had been over a year ago. It was difficult to determine if she needed something entirely different or was still clinging to hopes that Trevor would return. As for me, I require something different altogether on a daily basis; I’m at my most miserable when the routine becomes too dull and ordinary.

Malena was a clean freak. Her house was immaculate, her Girlfriendfax History Report was immaculate, her car was clean enough to meet the approval of a sterilization clinic and I wondered if she had any contagious diseases. I was uncomfortable in her house and constantly felt as if I were littering her living space with my mere presence. Cleaning was a major portion of her life and she seemed to always be wiping something. The topics of conversation were not very enticing either. Even when we started making out, she straightened the pillows on the couch while she kissed me.

This dampened the moment. As for me, I think it’s all right to feel inhuman, and she possessed none of these qualities. When I told her the philosophy about how some people think George Harrison is the best Beatle, Spiral Stairs is the star of Pavement, and how others claim Archer Prewitt solo albums are better than all The Sea and Cake records; and explained I was somewhat on the fence on this regards. But, I prefer Avey Tare over Panda Bear due to the fact that he screams his verses and gives Animal Collective that added edge. She had no clue what I was talking about, was not overly familiar with The Beatles, and insisted that she probably would not agree because she hates music with screaming and yelling in it. Her favorite bands of all-time were Yanni, Air Supply, and Kenny G. All I wanted to do was paint “For Reverend Green” on her clean white walls. This was not enjoying life for me; I felt more sorry for her than I felt attraction.

I finally got laid! It was more about desperation than attraction. Before leaving one day, I decided to risk the Anti-Virus Protection and spent over three hours watching lesbian porn videos on the internet. It had been awhile, and I was saving the climax for something special. Plus, I had an extensive list of other videos I wanted to watch. Therefore, when I left, I had been enjoying a 3+ hour masturbation spree and was yet to be satisfied.

This did put me in a better mood. People were no longer annoying when I was trying to visualize her participating in a scene from the videos I had been watching; picturing myself undressing her in the same fashion my heroes did it in the video selection. Truth be known, I always wanted to be a porn star. Unfortunately, the minimum requirement is 8 inches; leaving me about 6.5 inches short. Somebody once told me that my sunglasses reminded him of female porn stars from the 70’s. Not quite the Denzel Washington comparison I had always been hoping for, but I was fine with it, and found that to be a major improvement over that asshole from The Big Bang Theory who people constantly tell me I resemble.

Tori was wearing sunglasses exactly like mine. This annoyed because I felt she was copying me. She even approached me and discussed the sunglasses. My initial first impression was not overly fond of her.

For whatever reason, I told her about my friend insinuating that I looked like a female porn star. She asked if I was. I told her that it was my lifelong dream to be a porn star. She claimed it was hers too. Having sunglasses in common, the conversation turned to porn videos and the type of material we liked to watch; scenes we find the most amusing. In a wonderful turn events, she straight up invited me to her house and we could make our own porno scene. This suddenly boosted her ratings. It was a great time, but, afterwards, reality set in.

Somebody suggest that I enroll in a Zumba class because there aren’t any guys there and all the single women pounce on whatever straight guy might be present. She was right, and after just one class, I was hanging out with Brooke. My attraction to Brooke was her attire, yoga pants and a sports bra…she had a nice midriff. Unfortunately, this day and age, people don’t just fuck like they should and feel they have to get to know one another first.

Brooke spoke of her collection of figurines. Honestly, if she wasn’t wearing revealing athletic gear, I would have cut her loose after about three sentences. But, I listened attentively and she invited me to her house to see her marvelous collection. She drove a Volkswagon Rabbit with collector plates.

Back at her house, she had all this shit she collected, gadgets, figurines, and a story for all of them. There was shit all over the house and I wanted to hook her up with Malena the clean freak. After she changed her clothes into regular shit she wore on a regular basis, my attraction to her diminished.

I have two chief nemeses when it comes to searching for a new girlfriend, and coincidentally, both have been written about recently in a negative limelight. One being the aforementioned “strictly missionary” guy appears normal and presents stability, a decent job, and all of that boring shit. The other is the big beefy controlling type who seems to represent security and some sort of desire to keep an aloof person “in line” so to say. My friend Naomi discussed the second person in her blog, and how basically this person went from offering security to feelings of diving off a cliff in the dark and feeling insecure and lost—the complete opposite of what the attraction initially entailed.

If the article written by Dan Savage and the blog by Naomi could somehow be read by everybody, I would suddenly become a hot item.

Hayden had her fair share of problems, similar to mine. I had all the answers! She didn’t have to pay her bills anymore, did not have to conform to any norms, and need not worry about all the bullshit going on in the world. We could enjoy the pleasures of life, have fun instead, and if she were my girlfriend, she would never have to worry about anything again.

Ever since I wrote the “Give the Gift of Real Life Sex Dolls” I have sort of developed a fondness for Disney Princesses. I would not quite rank it in my Top 10, but I do have to say that the curiosity is there. Ariel was riding her bike on the sidewalk and nearly ran me over. She apologized and asked if I was OK and whether or not she needed to call an ambulance. For some reason, rather than be upset with the fact she nearly killed me, I just imagined that she would make a hot Snow White.

We walked together for several blocks and I concluded that she would also make a hot Cinderella and several other Disney characters that would fun to engage in some sort of bizarre sexual excursion. I wanted to take her back to my house and play out one of these fantasies.

I’ve decided that I would be a great stalker, and once again took up following somebody. This time, I went to Pick ‘N’ Save and followed around Nicole. She was cute and I was curious what kind of food these people ate. Fortunately for this event, I did not have to follow her around the store; I just had to make certain I was in the checkout lane behind her so that I could monitor her purchases.

In my opinion, she bought some relatively weird shit. While I was observing her selection, she had the nerve to call me out on it. She snapped her fingers right in front of my face: “Is there a problem?” She looked extremely irate and there was a fire blazing in her eye.

“What?” I stupidly asked as if I was unsure what she was talking about. “Is there a problem?” There was harsh sense of anger in her confrontation, “you seem like your studying what I’m buying as if it doesn’t meet your approval.”

“Do you like coleslaw?”

She grabbed the side of her cart and rammed it forcefully into my side, my bad side that still ailed me from the mosh pit injury I sustained back in high school. It hurt badly, and I almost started crying. I was clutching my side in excruciating pain, but trying not to make it noticeable that she had seriously injured me.

“This only proves that all women who eat coleslaw are fucking neurotic.”

“Yea,” she retorted angrily, “well this only proves that all boys who don’t eat coleslaw are pussies!”

Whereas a too clean Girlfriendfax History Report could prove problematic, a littered one can be equally bad. I printed Zoe’s Girlfriendfax History Report, walked away and decided I would read when I returned from the bathroom. When I returned, it was still printing, page 43, and claimed there was 12 minutes remaining. I had to cancel the job in the printer queue.

I liked Zoe, enough to where I may have been able to overlook this Girlfriendfax History Report. But, I prefer a don’t ask/don’t tell and this was repeatedly violated. There is absolutely nothing to gain by knowing a person’s past history and often people are not fully prepared to know the answer. She spoke of it though; she had slept with all of her co-workers, numerous random people at bars, and everywhere we went there was another person she had slept with. I’m not one to judge, and if this is the lifestyle she had chosen, then I am fine with that.

However, I do have the right to select who I choose for my girlfriend and who I do not. Again, one of my issues is sloppy seconds for I do not want a stray pubic hair to get into my mouth when I am going down on my girlfriend. Furthermore, I do not like the images this instills in my mind. The fact that she had slept with all of her co-workers made me uncomfortable about what she was doing at work; not to mention anytime she went anywhere else. Too often, her past interfered with her present, as there were constantly guys calling her, texting her, or claiming domain whenever we were out. One douche even said outright, “I had her first,” and then sat next to her at the table. It was more the douchy guys she had been with where the problem lied rather than her…many of these guys were my nemesis anyway. I knew it would never last, but I never degraded her. In fact, part of me wished to have sex with her too, but felt that might be a horrendous blemish on my history report.

I have this dilemma where I do not take compliments well. I would rather be insulted and am prone to be more attracted to women who tell me that I’m gross, stupid, fat, disgusting, a loser, and all of those wonderful adjectives—I view this as honesty and compliments and insincere. Lena was a compliment giver, and I found many of her compliments to be inaccurate. For example, she said I was cute. That alone pretty much indicated that she had no clue what she was talking about. Then, she claimed that I could make quality coleslaw if I really tried.

That’s where I drew the line. I know I have flaws and have embraced them. There is no way I could ever be perfect, nobody is, and I don’t see why I should even have to try. Furthermore, if I was so great, then why am I constantly in some of odd predicament? Everybody should be granted a few personal flaws and good people will overlook them. I need to be granted several of them, but people often seem to have too high of expectations.

Unlike what the girls who participate in the slut walk claim, I am “asking for it.” A large portion of my fantasies involve getting raped. I have much ambition to be raped repeatedly in the most brutal fashion. I would love to be dragged down an alleyway, beaten down, sexually abused, and forced to commit abominable sex acts; it would be even better if there were more of them and it would be gang raped. Getting gang raped by a large group of women is my #1 ambition in life. Each day, I wake up immediately in some sort of deranged fantasy about being forced into sex by a woman. En route to get coffee, I hope that I am brutally raped in the alley behind my apartment, kidnapped and taken to a strange closet, or to manipulated and tricked into sexual intercourse.

Unfortunately, these goals to be forcibly raped are rarely fulfilled. Women do not commit rape as often as I would like. There should be a registry available on the internet depicting guys who wish to be raped, and when a woman gets the urge, she could just prowl around in the middle of the night and wait to see me walking down the street.

Periodically, I purposely put myself in places that present the best opportunity to be brutally raped by some psychotic woman. I often dare women to, and frequently inform them they can do anything they want whenever they ask if it is OK to do anything—“Is it OK if I…” Sure, you can do anything you want. There is always a look, a pause, an awkward moment, an important decision to make, and most times they either walk away or simply claim that I am going to get her in trouble.

I was out back smoking in the alley and some girl came up to me and actually asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, hell, I don’t mind, I smoke too. You can do anything you want.”

“Thanks, I wish everybody would tell me that.”

Somewhere along the lines, I sensed that I was just dared to say something and failed miserably. I gave her a look, a pause, an awkward moment, and walked away.

When seeking out a potential girlfriend, one item that is automatic disqualification is a stroller. This is strictly from my perspective because I never had kids. People who have kids should only date other people with kids or interested in them. I am not a huge of kids and could never date somebody who has them.

It’s not that I have anything against people who have kids, but from a relationship standpoint, kids impose a challenge. Kids, in general, are notorious cock blockers. Parents will devote their entire lives to their children and recreational activities are defined by their children.

I met Audrey at City Market while I was getting coffee. As I was applying the cream and sugar, she approached and poured her coffee, speaking to me enthusiastically—I had never seen her before. Audrey was excited and had plans for a huge weekend. She said that she was having a huge party at her house, it was going to be totally wild and crazy, and they would be partying all night. That sounded cool to me and she invited me to come. I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not, but she gave me her phone number and wrote down her address for me to attend.

This sounded fun to me, and I even went out and bought a bag of weed to bring to the party. I get there, and there’s all these kids running around. I’m like, “who the fuck are all these little bastards?” There wasn’t one single adult present except Audrey and me. I get inside, and they’re all jumping up and down on the couch and shit, throwing shit through windows, it was total madness. I suppose I have to admit that children are crazier at parties than adults and wondered what it would seem like if adults were acting like this. The punch did not have any alcohol in it, but seeing everybody else having fun and totally enjoying themselves, I somewhat changed my perspective on drinking heavily at a party.

Piercings are another item where it is hard to determine where a person stands. Admittedly, I am attracted to women with small nose rings, lip piercings, or even the side of the cheek. However, that does not qualify as punk these days. There are girls with multiple facial piercings who sing in the church choir… the days of Pulp Fiction are over.

But, there are some who still think it is punk, different, rebellious, and all of the other positive qualities that come with being an individual. Tara had several piercings, including a large lip ring and massive hoops in her ear (these look fine while they are in, but once out and the ear lobe becomes droopy, not quite so nice looking). Honestly, due to the fact that I am attracted to ears and enjoy kissing them, the stretched earlobes are sort of a deal breaker almost; long-term, not short-term, and strictly speaking on a girlfriend notion.

I met her at a punk show and we happened to start talking in-between sets while outside smoking. She had never heard of the band, and only recently got into punk. Actually, she was the Kayla the Barbie princess three months ago. Maybe some serious shit went down, or maybe she was overly interested in the world of punk and lost interest in her preppy friends. However, I do not think she was being her natural self. She did not look right smoking, and seeing her up close in the light, the piercings did not seem to match either. It was as if she read the manual “How to Be a Punk For Dummies” and followed the directions outlined in the instruction guide: Get Piercings, get a tattoo, start smoking, attend a punk concert.

It’s the good girls who I have the most difficult time with. I often view myself as such a bad person that I do not deserve to be with a good person. However, I still have the yearning to be with somebody decent. Sierra was a quality individual, and simply put, I was too big of a piece of shit to be with her. There was an attraction, both ways, but I seriously had to employ the “it’s not you, it’s me” cliché. Everything was great in her life, and she was overly douchy either. Me, on the other hand, not quite so good.

On rare occasion, the lyrics of the song fit the scene perfectly...all people have their own personal theme song for various phases of life.

A friend and I were out riding around a while back ago, and there were three girls wanting to hang out with us. However, he noted the three girls each represented our problems in life: Fat, stupid, and too young. Yes, one was fat but cool, one was hot but stupid, too young is just out of the question.

Several years later, in Milwaukee, WI, Ashlynn was all three rolled up into one. She had somewhat tried to be part of the pretty people scene, but at the same time seemed to be shunning it as well. There was a lot of confusion with this young 18 year old, and I sadly deemed her as previews of coming attraction. Hope for advanced society was diminishing as I sensed Mike Judge’s Idiocracy was gradually coming true.

Since I am attracted to athletic women who will potentially beat my ass and rape me, I decided to go girlfriend shopping at the fitness club. I really wasn’t that smart of a shopper, simply waited outside, smoking cigarettes, and glancing in the window watching their boobs bounce up and down on the treadmill. Why the fuck do they have these things in wide open windows? This seems like the ideal spot to have curtains or blinds.

As I was deciphering which of the two women would make a better masturbation fantasy, it dawned on me that I like weird too. There aren’t very many women who are both athletic and punk. I sensed that most of these girls were more than likely listening to New Soul by Yael Naim (easily one of the worst annoying songs in history). However, for one night only, I felt as I wanted the company of somebody with a smoking hot body, even if she listened to shitty music.

Instead, I was soon walking with Brie. The only problem with Brie was that she was large. However, she dressed like a porn star with a short denim skirt and a blouse that was barely buttoned. Her clothes allowed me to walk with her and I think she realized this. If only she put forth as much as effort in keeping her body in shape as she did selecting clothing, she might be a knockout. On the other hand, several guys crave women this size, and I wish that I was one of them.

She led me to her house and invited me in, with a slight shove in the back. Brie was also a bit strange, which was fine. This allowed me to be strange too. I did not wish to have sex with her because I do not think I would have been that attracted to her naked body. However, it would be frivolous to have some fun with her clothes on as I do like teasing and catching cheap glimpses. It took 21 minutes for me to be satisfied, I had seen down her shirt, up her skirt, felt it all, and was finished. If she wanted anything more, she would have to rape to do so.

I gave up hope. The world was useless to me. There really wasn’t anybody that seemed to fit and I satisfied myself with the notion that I was going to be happily single for the rest of my life. There were numerous benefits to this and I think that it was meant to be.

However, I still occasionally succumb to loneliness and have that desire for people to come over and hang out with. Molly could have come over. She was single too, yet she hated being single. Some reason, I never pursued her. Milwaukee seemed to be the city of happy loving couples, and I just wasn’t one of them…I arrived too late. Being alone isn’t so bad; sometimes I enjoy the feeling of having drifted away from regular society. As I pass them all, I think to myself, good riddance to all of you. I am going to live out in the desert by myself and not have to deal with any of you ever again. That’s sort of bitter, I suppose, but that how it goes on the outskirts of life.

Just when I was prepared to retire to a lifetime of solitude, I experienced love at first sight. One look was all it took, and I realized that she was the one. Monica was practically perfect in every way!

I was not going to let this one slip away. After a few short moments of boosting my confidence to actually do this, I approached her, introduced myself, and actually spoke to her first. To make matters even better, she was writing a story called Boyfriend Shopping, and it turned out, I was even listed.

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