If You Like a Boy, Let Him Know. Drink A Lot First.

Catherine: Jana and I like to drink, that should be clear by now. Sometimes, we drink too much – this, I feel/fear, should be obvious. Anyways.

The summer of 2010, several of our friends moved into a large, run-down piece of shit house that was self-titled “The Butchershop.” Our friend had found it on Craigslist, where it was advertised as “an artist community” which meant “some of us are in a shitty metal band, and the rest of us like to get high and draw inappropriate things on the walls.” It had been all guys, but then, through a series of events, the top floor had slowly become vacated – enter our three good girl friends, who quickly moved in.

It became clear, as the months wore on, that there wasn’t more than one roommate who could correctly name everyone else.  Once, someone made a sign listing the residents. Of our friends, they correctly identified one, completely missed the mark on the second, and simply wrote “etc.” for the third.

Second line from the bottom: “Sabs, Max, Abbs, Etc…”. They got two out of four, guessed on the third, and then just said fuck it. Etc.

There was a boy living on the second floor, let’s call him Jake, that I thought was a DREAM COME TRUE. He had adorable freckles, a wonderful quiet yet sexy disposition, and an impossibly gorgeous face – for. reals. He also read books and was realllllllllly into tea. Being “into tea” myself, I figured we might be soulmates. Him, being really, really, really hot and me bring really into deep stuff like tea and books.

Suffice it to say, we never spoke.

Until one night. I got nice and boozed up on the third floor and headed back downstairs to get some ice. On the way back up, I noticed that Jake’s door was open, he  inside. Logic escaping me, I let myself in. Putting on my best sexy/coy act (this is a painful thing to watch, guys. It is ROUGH.), I drunkenly blabbered on about how I really liked tea too. And what books are you reading? Oh, Vonnegut? He is GREAT. What an amazing writer. I loved “Slaughterhouse 5.” What was my favorite part? (Drunkenly searches mind for anything having to do with a book I just lied about having read) (Fails) You know WHAT. I THINK YOU ARE CUTE, I say. Yea, I think you’re a really interesting person. I’m not just saying this cuz I’m drunk, I’m hardly drunk at all! (Lies, lies, lies.) Jake blushes his adorable smile. I seat myself on his bed and he imperceptibly moves his chair further away. No matter. This goes on FAR too long. I finally excuse myself and run upstairs to tell my friend of my misadventures, where I am met with “SERIOUSLY?” and “GOOD FOR YOU!” She was drunk, too.

Jake and I never spoke again.

Jana: Ohhh Cathy. Cathy, who loves tea. Or, in my experience, drinks tea sometimes but not frequently? Anyway, yes, Cathy was obsessed with Jake, strangely freckled boy of the second floor. I didn’t personally see the appeal, but I DID one time stop her from RUNNING home from a bar to confess her love for him. As I recall, we made it to the field behind the Butchershop, where I was able to get her to stop, sit on the baseball diamond, and just tell ME about how beautiful he was, instead.

I will also just say that during our summer at the Butchershop, I once overheard one of the young artists who lived there (whose name, of course, I did not know) say this: “Texting is like saying: ‘I wanna go halfsies on a baby with you, but I ain’t gonna pay for SHIT!'”

Maybe If I’m High, Her Parents Will Like Me

Hello, dear readers! Today we are delighted to share our very first GUEST POST from our extremely funny friend Jason. Quick background: Jason lives in Texas and was recently fired from his customer service job for sharing with the world all the absurd things customers said to him. Also, this happened while his wife was pregnant. So he knows about what sucks. CHECK IT OUT:

Jason: When I was younger I was terrible at life, all of it, but I was especially bad at girls. Being good at girls meant being good at being yourself, you know, having confidence and stuff, and that just wasn’t something I was good at. Basically the only time I ended up with girls was through weird happenstance, like being the only two people still awake at a party, or some random girl would come up to me at my place of work and give me her number. But then I’d get drunk enough to call her and maybe we’d hang out once and I’d be an idiot and have no idea what to do and never call her again and pretend not to be home if she called me, because you know, it was awkward.

So that’s why it was very exciting for me when, at the age of 20, I met a super cute girl, developed a giant crush on her, then discovered that she miraculously fancied me too, and guess what? We actually ACTED on our mutual crush, you know, like most people do when they’re 15. This was huge for me though, because this wasn’t just some drunken party leftover or some girl with terrifyingly brazen aggressiveness, this was a girl that I had gotten to know and like (a lot) over the course of a couple of months. That’s why when it came time to meet her parents I found myself positively mortified.

Now is a good time to mention the fact that as a young man I was quite fond of drugs. Remember I mentioned how terrible I was at life? I liked to keep a constant stream of THC and Klonopins flowing through my veins at all times. It really helped to keep my anxiety level down. Sure I’d get lost driving to the store and forget what I was talking about half-way through a sentence, but I was cool and relaxed (often bordering on catatonic) and also got to watch the same movies over and over again without actually remembering any plot points, so who cares right?

So this wonderful young lass who was somehow nice enough to see through the doped up weirdo to the adorable stray-puppy beneath (this is how I like to view myself), we’ll call her Heather, went to college in my hometown, but this particular story must’ve been during Spring-Break or something because for whatever reason she was staying at her parent’s house about 45 minutes away. I obviously couldn’t deal with just not seeing her for a week, and she didn’t have a car, so we made plans for me to drive out to her parent’s house one evening to make-out and watch a movie. I’m pretty sure that she told me ahead of time that we wouldn’t be having sex because the walls in her house are paper-thin and sound travels. But whatever, I was willing to take this trip anyways because I really liked this girl.

I took the prerequisite amount of Klonopins (I don’t advise this) and brought along a couple of pre-rolled joints and started on my drive into the great unknown. This was pre-MapQuest and many years before we all decided it would be cool to allow all of our movements to be monitored via satellite, so I really had no idea where I was going. All I had were some rough directions that I had scribbled down that included a bunch of numbers and something about an industrial park. As I drove around for about three hours, contemplating what I was going to say to her parents, (the only thing I knew about her father was that he really enjoyed the film “Tombstone”, but who didn’t?) if I ever found their house, I enjoyed smoking all of my weed and probably a half pack of cigarettes.

Anyway, I did finally arrive at their house, several hours later than we had agreed upon, and was allowed in by Heather who tried her best to usher me into her room as discreetly as possible. I, of course, had no interest in discretion; with an abundance of weed and benzos flowing through me there was nothing I couldn’t handle. The first thing I had to do was use the bathroom, because I had been in the car forever and also because when I was high I had to pee a lot, and also would have trouble peeing. It was awful. After about five minutes in the bathroom I went into the living room where her father was sitting watching TV. There I am, a stranger in his home, several hours late, eyes barely open, REEKING of weed and cigarettes, probably drooling mildly, I’m sure he was very impressed by what great company his daughter was keeping. “Gladiator”, which had just come out on VHS, was playing on the television. This was my chance to really impress this guy, so that just incase things got serious with his daughter and I he would be certain to love me like a son.

“Wow, is that Gladiator?” I asked.
“Yes.” He curtly replied.
“Man, I haven’t liked a movie that much since TOMBSTONE!” I was so proud of myself, I had just managed to namedrop his favorite movie, I was like him, he and I were kindred spirits. Nothing could stop us now.

There was an awkward silence followed by, “Yeah, I love Tombstone.” His eyes never left the screen.
Then I stood there, awkwardly staring at him for a few moments as he watched Russell Crowe being more awesome than I could ever be and that was that. I went into the bathroom for another five minutes and then disappeared into his daughter’s room.

Over the course of the next two hours I probably used the bathroom another 300 times or so, it was certainly enough for Heather’s mother to question her about it the next day. Also, we watched the movie “Romeo is Bleeding” in which Juliet Lewis plays some sort of drugged out hooker and I told Heather that night that she reminded me of her.

I think it goes without saying that a serious relationship never developed between Heather and I, and I think it was shortly after this that she decided not to talk to me for two or three years, but somehow we’re now BFF and her parents thankfully have no idea who I am even though we’ve met a couple times since then.

Anyways, thanks Catherine and Jana for letting me play. I love what you two are doing and want you to know that you are not alone out there. I have ten million more stories should they be of any use to you.

THIS IS JASON (12 years ago. Ladies, please). Also, maybe a picture that would be included in the obituary of a rapper, if Jason were a rapper who had died young.

Catherine: Jason, you should’ve gotten in on the groundfloor of “Meet the Parents” because it sure does seem like you have some excellent experience for Ben Stiller type comedy. Did you happen to re-enact the opening scene from “There’s Something About Mary” as well? I wonder. What a mess.

Jana: My favorite part of this is that you told Heather that she reminded you of a drugged-out Juliet Lewis. I feel like if she’d responded well to that, everything might have been different.

How Did You All Get Here?: An Exploration Of Our Readership.

Hello, readers. So, now that we’re a big deal, something new is happening: wordpress informs us that we are being found via google. Hooray!, you might think we’re thinking. But, let me clarify. It’s not that we’re being found via google ON PURPOSE; no, we are being found via google by people who are in really weird, gross, or sad situations. They are stumbling upon us, because what we write about is weird, gross, and sad. Through the magic of the internet, we’re being connected with our people. 

Since these poor suckers aren’t getting the answers that they’ve probably expected when clicking our link, we thought we would try to provide some now. Listen and learn.

First, we shall address some of the MANY search queries relating to cold sores.

 

Actual Search #1: “did people notice my cold sore on my wedding day”

 

Catherine: Most definitely.

Jana: Did you seriously not postpone your wedding?

Catherine: You know there are hundreds of pictures, right?

 

Actual Search #2: “I have a bad cold and sore throat should I hang with my friends or just stay home”

Catherine: Just stay home. You didn’t say it explicitly, but I’m assuming your face is also broken out and you’ve been wearing the same underwear/sweatpants for a few days now. Nobody wants to see that.

Jana: Listen, guy, I’m not gonna tell you that I haven’t on occasion rallied through a little sore throat by chugging airborne and taking tequila shots. That said, I was much younger. So this really depends on your age. How old are you? Do you often get into conversations about “Fraggle Rock?” Did you love “Empire Records?” Where were you on 9/11 – High School bio class, right? Stay home.

 

Actual Search #3: “what can my cold sore do to me?”

Catherine: What can’t it do is a better question. Offer you the fine company of solace and isolation? No, it can do that. Embitter your soul? It invariably does. Expect that it can, and will, do anything to bring you down.

Jana: Your cold sore can fuck you up.

 

 

Actual Search #4: “why do cold sores take chunks from lips”

Catherine: I don’t think that is supposed to happen…

Jana: IT DOES HAPPEN. It’s because they have to dry up first and then the dry stuff comes off, bringing chunks with it. TOO MUCH, I know. Real answer: It’s because the world is cold. Stay inside.

Catherine: Jana, TMI, buddy.

 

Actual Search #5: “if a cashier has a cold sore and touches you do you get herpes”

Catherine: Geez, I don’t know, probably? At least if it were me that would happen, because man, that would really suck.

Jana: Speaking as a former cashier with cold sores: No, bitch.

 

 

Actual Search #6: “I have some cold sores”

Catherine: Oh, really?

Jana: I understand the impulse to just type this into google as a stand-alone statement; I really do. Let me know if you need a hug or a valtrex.

 

 

Actual Search #7: “I don’t have cold sores”

Catherine: Congratulations! Read about Jana’s!

Jana: Cool, congratulations. Why did you put this in google? Is there a problem?

 

 

Actual Search #8: “people comment on my cold sores”

Catherine: Of course they do.

Jana: They talk about them behind your back too, I’m sure. Why is it that you’ve been going outside?

 

 

Actual Search #9: “nearly almost get cold sored during the night”

Catherine: Now, I assume this was a typo, but it’s so good to think of it NOT as a typo. Like, “coldsore” the verb. As in, “Man, I had a date, but I got coldsored so I stayed home and watched Hugh Grant movies while contemplating why nobody likes me.”

Jana: I’ve said this. I have actually said this.

 

BONUS ACTUAL SEARCH HAVING NOTHING TO DO WITH COLD SORES: “he stopped in middle of having sex then told me he wasn’t ready for a new relationship”

Catherine: I can only hope that reading our blog helped this poor person feel a little better, because DAMN.

Jana: Did you cry? I would have cried. Man, sex is great.

 

 

Maybe I (Definitely) Shouldn’t Go To Nightclubs

Catherine: Here I will detail the first of MANY reasons why I should really just stop going to nightclubs.

We open on an 18 year old Catherine, freshman year of college. I had a relentless ability to rage long and hard every single night of the week and still manage to wake up the next day and 1) live and 2) accept any and all drinks, any time of day (luke warm vodka at 3pm? Sounds fun!). One night, I ventured out to downtown Burlington, VT (no doubt taking the off-campus bus and saving myself the approximately 1.2 mile walk) with some fellow dormmates (that was a thing, guys). We headed to the (only?) 18+ nightclub, and I was brandished with big fat X-marks on both of my hands. I am ASSUMING that I was already drunk, but to be fair, that part of the story escapes me. What’s important is this: It was a time in my life where I wore, and loved, Gap jeans I had owned since 8th grade, despite their having holes in both knees and the butt. And the fact that they could no longer zip up all the way. That, I determined, was no problem at all. Instead, I safety-pinned them open and wore them with black underwear. It was a look, it was intentional, and yes, I am glad there are no pictures.

At said nightclub, it was all top 40s which was my JAM. So I was alloverthatshit. I don’t wanna get ahead of myself, but I’m a pretty sick dancer (in terms of grinding, dancing awkwardly provocatively, hair flipping, etc.) My talents were not wasted on the fine men who chose to go to an 18+ nightclub despite being mainly over 21. One such man began dancing with me, citing my “sick moves!” This went on a while, culminating in the ever-sexy “I will dance LITERALLY ON YOU with my feet off the floor as you dip me and I think I look really good most likely.” It was hot.

Upon leaving, it came to my attention that my dance date was missing a tooth. A front one. Prominently in the very center of his mouth. I literally had no idea. The ridicule I endured was appropriate because like, seriously, people. How did I not see that. My friend wrote this poem of the incident:

Hmmmmm…Cathy.
Oh Cathy oh Cathy.
Toothless Willy will never be the same because I bet he never danced with
a chick that didn’t think he was lame.You said he was sick danca’
and that’s all there is to it
because for real, he looked like pranca’
… and you know he wanted to do it.I called his friend Pedro,
maybe that wasn’t right.
But it all seemed just fine
at the end of the night!

I should mention that his friend was called Pedro solely because he was Mexican, and Napoleon Dynamite was really huge at the time.

Jana: Poor Pedro – I’m sure he got that all the TIME that year. And, I can see why toothless man liked you: it was because your outfit was so classy.