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

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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.