Dear Private School Fugs...

Yes, that’s right. I’m talking directly to you girls out there – you Hockadasies, Ursuline nuns, and ESD whatchamafucks. OMG. Fucking, what are you guys wearing?!

Day in and day out at the unnamed cupcake shop - for fear of corporate sensorship – I see you pizza-faced faucks traverse to confectionatory heaven to get a cupcake. Sometimes, Goddammit, I see ya'll twice a day. That's one too many cupcakes fatties! Sorry I digress...let’s get to the main point of this argument: Dresscode. Private school students, girls in particular, are supposed to be our future community leaders: attend an ivy, join a top 3 sorority, attend law school, join the junior league, live in Highland Park, and have CUTE, Burberry-clad children. But noooooo. Instead of preparing to take on your reserved place in the social hierarchy, I see that your saddle oxfords are scribbled and doodled on with ink, one sock up and one sock down, untucked and un-ironed shirts, hair piled on top of your head in rat nest fashion, no make-up, sweat pants underneath your cute, plaid school-girl skits, and my least favorite: wet hair! Are ya’ll dykes?! JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!

It is seriously no wonder you didn’t get asked to Jesuit prom, but had to settle for Cistercian instead. While the cute boys over at Jesuit and St. Marks are playing field hockey and lacrosse with a stadium full of hott, public school girls, you guys are wearing swim caps, playing rugby, and eating yet again, another cupcake! Well stop!

Don't fucking show your face in sprinkles again! Get rid of your Coach keychain and your gay Northface! Pick up some Proactive, hit the gym, and run a brush through your hair!

The school-girl uniform has become emblematic of sexy, so treat it as such!

Ha! Fucking Suck it You Commercially Pretty 1L WHORE, we're FBO!

News News News!

Forest and I had a DTR, which he initiated, and now we're FBO! (Define the Relationship & Facebook Official).

He's mine. He's mine. He's mine! Stupid lil "I bought my way into SMU Law can fucking rot. Who provides more stimulating conversations than myself? Who took a certain someone to a certain musical and provided heavy booze and a scenic 20 story makeout apertif before curtain? Moi. I win. I win. I win. Best Girlfriend ever.

And you know what? I don't even know if I'm that into Mister Law/Forest. I should post a pic eventually, but the kid owns a rifle for God's sake. He's more in line politically with L. However, what brought us together happened to be so anti-conservative so I think that counts for something? If you'll remember, dear readers, our fateful relationship journey began that one night I drunkenly decided to bring back a buncha law kids to Daddy and Domestic Partners' downtown high rise. Yikesssssssssss. Alcohol and brownies (weed) later.....I never wanted to see the kid again. I distinctly remember asking him the following morning to please not talk to me while we drove home because I might throw up on him. Oy.

But alas, he texted. And texted. And texted. Lest we not forget that gen-Y-ers do not call. They text.

Strangely enough the dirty, provacative texts did not deter me. Finally, someone with my sick mind and insane work ethic! Moreover, someone with just as much a crazy family and moi! Details to come.

And how long can J hold off on sex, cause ya know, Gen-Y doesn't consider oral, "sex," like our babyboomer parentals do. That happened on the third date. FML.

Must. Get. On. Birth. Control. A.S.A.P.

But I don't want to go all moody as fuck. Gahhhh.

Also, Father keeps asking the infamous "J, WTF happened to NY?! So what, are you just gonna get some stupid 25K job and a shitty apartment and stay in stupid Dallas for the rest of your life as a Blue Collar, middle management loser?" (In case you didn't know, gay father = brutal).

We'll keep that question open-ended for now. Though he might be well off, a hard worker, and wears pleanty of linen and ralph lauren, I don't know if his kisses make my stomach flip like they should (plus, I fucking have to be on top wayyyyy too much). Ooops he's texting/sexting now. G2G

xoxo
~J

Don't Worry, She's Only Commercially Pretty...

All hell broke loose yesterday during my second, boring, unpaid internship. Not only do I happen to be dating the finest young soon-to-be Esq. from a certain law school, but maybe, just maybe the most fucking beautiful girl in America, Holland, and Sweden combined will be attending said law school next year. Thank you Facebook.

Homeboy ("Forest," from earlier post), is predictably the best looking kid at the law school in question. Naturally, good looking people, from my observation, tend to go with style instead of substance. The evidence at hand yields two possible deductions: A. Forest and Barbie meet, date, and marry; only to become the most successful, beautiful couple in the history of the world. B. They don't meet because they're so busy and I continue to treat Forest like shit because as we all know, it's all about games.

Games-ladies and gentlemen-are the fucking key to successful ass. Romance, don't fucking as me; ass, yes.

L's quote in response to my situation and some intensive facebook stalking:
"Girl wore tights to graduation. In May. In Dallas. She's nuts. And plus she is commercially pretty. That's boring outside of a Playboy centerfold."

Regardless.....FML. Back to this bottle of Oakleaf, $3, Wal-mart Cab Sav.

Social Experimentation

So, a week ago I arrived in the ever fabulous city of New York for the summer. I wasted no time in getting my feet wet in the dating scene. My first social experiment of the summer was going to a bar by myself.

Eating lunch, getting a cup of coffee, shopping, browsing a bookstore are all things that I (and any other human being) would do by myself. But then there comes the dreaded- and quite possibly humiliating- drinking by yourself at a bar. That I (and again, any other human being) find somewhat daunting and intimidation.

The Blair Waldorfs and Samantha Jones' seem to pull it off with grace and ease. Typically their drinking alone is brought short by a fellow gentleman wanting their company shortly after arrival. Thus ending the sad, lonely, masacistic existance. But what about us mere mortals? Those of us that don't have a movie script cuing a man's interest into our lives? Well I intended to find out.

For the first 45 minuets, I sat by myself pretending to write in a notebook with purpose hating my life. Feeling like a loser. Flashbacks to high school with no one to sit with at the lunch table. I gave myself another fifteens minuets before I would leave, buy myself a bottle of wine, and lick my wounded ego. Just after making that resolution, cue in Dan. Dan is a thirty-three Manhattanite in the field of textile engineering. Whatever the hell that is.

Dan offered for me to come sit with him and his friend Adam. I took him up on the offer and met Adam, one of the many New York financiers. Adam, Dan, and I talked for some time. Dan seemed really nice while I was less than impressed by Adam's ego. However not surprising among the hedge fund types. Adam kept talking about how his maid wasn't polishing his wood (pun may or may not be intended) to his satisfaction.

Food was ordered, drinks were bought, and somehow the conversation turned to how I don't have air conditioning in my apartment. Shock and amazement filled their faces. I refrained from commenting how not all of us were lucky enough to have maid services, a corner office on Wall Street, and an unlimited disposable income. It was then that Adam pulled out his wallet and started counting the 20 dollar bills asking me how much an air conditioner costs.

Eyes wide I looked at Adam. Then at Dan. Back to Adam and managed to stammer out an "I don't really know". Adam then looked at Dan and shrugged, "About $200 do you think?" all the while still counting the bills in his wallet.

In an attempt to wrap my head around what I thought was happening, I turned to Dan and asked, "is he trying to give me money for an air conditioner"?!

"I think so," was Dan's reply.

Oh. My. God. Disbelief, shock, and slight horror. A strange man was attempting to give me cash for a freaking air conditioner. I quickly told him that in no way was I going to allow him to give me money. I would rather sweat myself skinny. Taking cash from a guy- albeit for an air conditioner- is not something that I wanted to embark upon.

And to this day, I can't really believe that it actually happened.

Adam left shortly after that, but not before paying for the entire bill, my three Belvedere vodka drinks plus the two I had prior to meeting them, included. Dan and I then left to go to a bar called Lucy's. Where I ingested two pomegranate margaritas on top of my five vodka drinks. I was feeling real good. From there he hailed a cab and took me back to my apartment.

And yes, we definitely made out in the back seat of the cab. #42 can be crossed off my bucket list. He got out, walked me to the door, told the cab to wait, made out with me some more, and then got back in the cab to go all the way up to the Upper West Side to his residence.

Conclusion of the night? By all means do go to a bar by yourself! Just be prepared for all sorts of entertainment.

J Declares Fatwa on "Text-Dating" (Sexting OK)

Soooo, arriving back in civility-aka, Dallas, has been absolutely fantastic for my love life. Within two weeks of moving home and graduating I have been on numerous dates and hookups with two fine young gentlemen, one of whom is about to be a 2L at a Dallas law school which shall remain nameless. Notably, said gentleman, has taken a clerkship in Texas's horrid capitol city. Nonetheless, that doesn't keep law boy-we'll call him Forest, for lack of man-scaping, from texting me throughout the day.

No, these aren't your simple, cutesy, "Hope you're having a great day!" texts. Rather, they are full fledged, multi-text converFUCKINGsations. I thought surely this had to be Forest's own phone faux pas, and I was willing to let this habit slide until another suitor-we'll call him OURockBod, began doing the same damn thing after our hookup (one of those hookups you hope ends after the night, but I have sweet friends who like to give my phone number out).

I'm having such a Carrie moment. Surely SHE wouldn't stand for this MAJOR indiscretion. I mean, is this not a fucking bloody red flag frantically waving at Gen-Y to fix our shit before we ROYALLY fuck our kids up with nonexistent communication skills?! I would venture as far to say that even Junior High AIMing was more acceptable dating than this!

Sorry for the freakout, but I am petrified about our future. Mind you, I'm only referencing two 22-23 year old men, but these guys aren't fuck-ups, they're your extraordinary "Most Likely to Succeed," football star types.

Until something changes, I refuse to vindicate this behavior and hereby declare fatwa on couple-y text convos that exceed four texts.

Hello Party People! I am L, J's bff and future NYC studio apartment roommate, and a girl who gets her kicks from partying, drinking, shopping, and more or less being a superioristic bitch. We can go ahead a just address my stereotype from the beginning: I am a born and bred private school Texan, a sorority girl, ex prima ballerina, and an overall fabulous person who would wear high heels to exercise if I thought I could get away with it.

As much as I hate to admit it, being a fabulous person does not always render me fabulous experiences. I get my heartbroken, boys don't call when they say they will, friends disappear, and sometimes I feel like the whole world is against me (I think I have the makings of a country song...). So here in this sanctity of a blog, J and I are just two girls who are trying to figure out life, trying to understand the ways of the world, and making the most of what we have been given- all while drinking martinis and doing tequila shots.

The City That Loves You Back....And Then Steals Your Wallet

L and I devote a lot...A LOT...of talk time and think time to heaven on earth/New York City. And by New York City we mean everything below 96th and surely west of 2nd. So here is just a small aperitif before we get too intoxicated with the matter...

J's account:

Prior to my 9th arrival in New York my days were chalked full of bitter-sweet anticipation. Surely, the spon of Satan heart-breaker of 2009 could not both ruin my chance of a ring before spring and MY city too? Surprisingly, the ginger snap didn’t. Thoughts of he and I in the city were merely misty, water-colored memories, and pleasant ones at that. How could I have sunk so low as to suck a fire-crotched, uncircumcized dick atop a king-sized, satin duvet AND pay for breakfast?!!

The plane ride there was anything but restful. I had to down two bottles of Farm Ridge chardonnay to induce a mild relaxed state, not to mention survive a 2 hour layover in the African capitol of the world, Memphis. But alas, as soon as the pilot announced our descent into LaGuardia, the biggest smile spread across my mouth and my heart damn near skipped a beat. I looked around the cabin to see if any of my fellow passengers shared in my delight. Not so much. Normally I’m a fuckin fearful flier who loathes turbulence, but I didn’t care; hell, the pilot coulda informed us we would be suicide crashing into the Empire State Building and I’d probably thank God for the honor to die in the nearest thing to heaven! (A cookie if you can name that movie).

I guess I expected the city to welcome me with 76 trombones and a sequined formation of the Radio City Rockettes high kicking to the likes of “If I Can Make It There I’ll Make It Anywhere…,” when I stepped off the plane, but of course, New Yorkers being New Yorkers, I was first greeted by an audacious pervert in the snack shop. Oh well fuck it, I was in NY! A bumpy cab ride whisked me over the Triburrow bridge, up the East Side highway and to 350 W. 53rd Street where my gay father, in his newly shined Pradas, and I promptly ran down to 48th to see Arther Miller’s “A View from the Bridge.” If it doesn’t take home the Tony this year, all is lost. Side Note: as much as I despise Times Square, I was elated to be walking amongst the prostitutes, Japanese tourists, pimps, assholes, and mentally deranged of the world. I was home.

The faces of New Yorkers don’t necessarily remind me of the faces of people who have played a game and lost, but like a bunch of Jews coming from a sale at Filene’s. Ya win some and ya lose some, but there's always next season. JesusMary&Joseph New York is full of so much chutzpah even the Catholics are Jewish. Regardless of the lack of generous tippers, I must say, this Shiksa loves a town devoid of goys! Yay for circumcized dicks! I’d gladly ask the Rabbi on Park and 73rd three times for a lifetime membership to the club. “Rabbi Epstein, can I pleaseeee spin the dreidel?” Would he permit me? If my nose could speak for itself, then yes. However, chances are, New York Jews don’t take kindly to blonds (The only thing Charlotte had going for her was being a brunette).

Not to sound like too much of a Kvetch, but let me digress a moment for a New York pet peeve: suburban moralists that traverse to my city clad in mom jeans and tucked in turtle necks. They infiltrate Times Square alongside the resident pimps, hoes, and mentally deranged trying desperately to capture a white-washed picture for this year’s Christmas card in front of the Coca Cola sign. I’d pity them but I’d worry they’d spill Capri Sun on my suede boots.

Carrie once asked, “Are there women in New York who are just there to make us feel bad about ourselves?” Obviously, Carrie wasn't in a sorority. My chances of finding a Mr. Big are much better among the homely northern types than the blond bombshells of my University, which shall remain nameless. So, a year from now I’ll come to New York to find the ambiance that will evoke my best. I don’t necessarily know precisely what that might be, but I’ll come anyway to discover it.