V. Diddy invented the ReLaunch

Seeing as somehow this lazy-ass blogger has had 9,978 people view her blog since it was created 8 months ago, I figured I’d do something craaaaazy to celebrate 10k. Like, maybe, write a new post.

Without consciously deciding to, I somehow managed to take the summer off. Awful, simply awful, I know. But while most people come up with silly New Year’s resolutions they will break by Valentine’s Day, I usually come up with mine after my late-August birthday (usually to be broken by Labour Day).

This year – or to be more specific, 5 days ago – I turned 30 (I know, I don’t look a day over 11). Although I do believe Aaliyah when she sings Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number – albeit to defend marrying a pedophile – I am looking at this calendarial milestone as a perfect time to make some changes in my life. These changes won’t be major ones. I don’t suddenly want to settle down or start procreating (come on, I’m 30, not crazy). I do, however, want to spend more time doing the things I love. Based on the irregularity of this blog, you may not know that one of those things is writing. I am making a promise to myself, and maybe Rochelle and Dominika, that I WILL be doing more of it. More writing, more frequently. I can’t keep using not having a laptop or being hungover as an excuse anymore. I’m an adult now. Adults buy laptops and take Advil.

The other big thing I want to do more of is TRAVEL. Some of you may have just scoffed because I have racked up some miles over the last few years, but I’m not talking about all-inclusives and weekends in New York and Vegas. I want to see parts of the world beyond the bright lights and partying. Well, keep the bright lights and partying and add some culture, history and good ass food and I’m all set. By the end of 2013 I WILL visit either Asia or Europe, or I will give everyone who has subscribed to my blog $25. There. Now it basically has to happen or I’m out $75.

The new 30-year-old Vanessa, who writes consistently, has decided to celebrate 10k views with a NAPSGETBRAPS ReLAUNCH on Tuesday, so expect a new post much more interesting than this one. Stickers (thanks Dom), shout-outs (sorry Dom you already got yours), and more embarrassingly hilarious stories to come over the next week. Ok. Now I’m just trying to make it seem like it’s more than just a new post. 30-year-old Vanessa is apparently an exaggerator.

So, here we go. I have been told by all my 30+ friends that I’m about to enter a decade unlike any other. At 30 I know who I am, I work for a company I love, I have friends I adore and I have a liver that keeps on truckin’ no matter how much I abuse it. The time to live is now.

 

Cheers to my Dirty Thirties

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I don’t lie.

See? My mom really does read my blog. LOL. Hi mom!

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I’ll sleep with you… but only if I can’t stand you.

There is one habit that a lot of women are guilty of that boggles the minds of men everywhere (as if that takes much). I’ve tried explaining it to my male friends on many, many occasions and none of them have ever responded with, “I totally see where you’re coming from. Makes complete sense.” In fact, their reaction is usually “that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I hope you’re the only retard who does that.”

The habit I’m speaking of is the one that forces us to wait much longer before sleeping with men we actually like than those we know we have no future with.

Yes. That’s what I said. I will sleep with some idiot I want to throw gasoline on and shoot close-range with a rifle after a few dates sooner than I’ll sleep with a guy I can see myself committing to. Oops. I didn’t mean “I” as in myself.  I was speaking for other women, because of course I’m still a virgin (hi mom!).

Now some women claim this is because they think if they sleep with a guy too soon he’ll think they’re easy, respect them less, never want anything more serious with them and blah blah blah. That’s bullshit. Women tell themselves that because they don’t want to admit the real reason they wait to sleep with guys they like; because they want to hide the Crazy for as long as they can.

Yes, I capitalized Crazy on purpose. Because the Crazy is an entity all on it’s own. You can’t control the Crazy, the Crazy controls you. The Crazy can usually be tamed for the first few weeks when you meet someone. You know, when everyone is still trying to play it cool. When he still listens to your stories and you still shave your legs before every date. But the Crazy gets full control once the girl gives up the goods. It’s like the Crazy awakens from slumber as soon as those panties hit the floor.

Hmm. Is that the sound of first-time sex I hear? *Stretch* *Crack knuckles* Let’s do dis.

The Crazy heightens all the already-slightly-crazy thoughts you have when you’re in that early dating stage and you’re unsure of what he’s thinking. Why hasn’t he called me today? I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s dating anyone else? Is he sleeping with anyone? Hmmm. Does he have any lingering exes? Who’s that skank in the bikini who posted ‘hey babe! <3’ on his Facebook wall?

Then you get naked.

Now you’re wondering what he thought when he saw you naked for the first time. He hasn’t text me all day. Did he think I was fat? Did he see my cellulite and lose interest? Omg. Should I not have asked him to pull my hair the first time? Great. Now he thinks I’m a slut. Did I snore afterwards? And in the worst-case scenario, the Crazy can even manifest itself like this.

ZOMGSOMANYQUESTIONSINEEDANSWERSTOWHYISHEBEINGSOALOOF.

And that’s when the Crazy wins. Because now you’re starting to feel insecure. And insecurity on a woman to a man is like Citronella to a mosquito. That shit ain’t a secret and it ain’t attractive. And then, when things go awry, who does the girl think is to blame? Surely it wasn’t the fact that she went crazy. Nope. It’s the sex. The sex is to blame. Dirty, dirty sex. You knew you shouldn’t have had sex with him after 4.5 dates! Never again!

Now, does this happen with all women? No. But insecurity (and estrogen) is a helluva drug. I can only speak from personal experience, so I’ll admit it – the Crazy and I go way back like Skip-Its and Today’s Special. But does this habit always win over logic? No. I “know someone” who met a guy at System Soundbar, slept with him on the first or second date, and ended up in a relationship with him for almost a year. But that was when I, I mean she, was much younger. And less jaded.  Now a guy is lucky if she gives it up before he buys the ring.

The moral of this story is… BITCHES BE CRAZY.

bitches be crazy

WHY HASN’T HE CALLED?

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People I can’t delete from Facebook (but want to).

I love Facebook.

Yeah. That’s right. I can publicly admit that I LOVE FACEBOOK. Print that shit on a t-shirt and I’ll wear it to a Wu-Tang concert and not give a fuck, sonnnnn. I don’t care that your grandmother uses Facebook. I still love it. I love everything about it. I love that I can post pictures, music videos, articles, “Like” things, comment on things, tell everyone what I think of a movie I watched on Netflix and, most importantly, tell everyone on my friends list what I think about EVERYTHING. I like that I can tell a stranger off when their opinion is different than mine. Or just because I’m bored. As the narcissist that I am, Facebook has allowed me to do what I’ve always done but on a much larger scale, which is constantly prove how awesome I am and how much more valid my opinions are than everyone else’s. As much as everyone loves to downplay their usage or dependence on it, let’s face it, Facebook has changed our daily lives.

Now as much as I love Facebook, I am quite particular about who I have on my friends list. Because I share almost every detail of my life on my page, I am a bit wary of which requests I accept. Basically I won’t add anyone that I don’t personally know, unless they are a DJ/Promoter/Someone in Toronto that I add to be able to keep up with their events/mixtapes/whatever. The only way I break this rule is if you are a hot, hot, single male or a dude from POF (my friends and I call them Poffers) and I want to know if the 3 pictures you had on your POF profile are the only 3 that hide the fact that you are a troll. Even then, I will usually accept your request but if you aren’t sayin anythin, you’re deleted within a week, tops.

As for the people who actually get access to my Timeline, you’re still not safe. I do major clean-ups every 6 months or so. There are actually people who have been deleted every clean-up but add me again when they notice. I am always baffled by these people. It’s frickin’ weird, bruh. It’s like we’re playing a sick game or something. Break-ups to make-ups type shit, yo. Trust me, if I notice somehow you deleted me from your Facebook for no reason I can think of, you’re not only never getting re-added, but I’ve probably already started a blog post about what a skank you are. I guess some people don’t have an ego like mine.

Now besides the people I actually like and the people I just re-add because I feel like if I don’t they’re going to make a dress out of my skin, there is one more group of people who will probably remain on my friends list indefinitely – the people I can’t delete. Whether it’s because I’m a sap who doesn’t want to offend some people (I know, ME not wanting to offend someone is weird, right?), or that I secretly have a crush on you and want to creep you (amongst other things), there is something preventing my fingers from clicking that ‘Unfriend’ option. This is a very mixed group of people and the reasons I can’t delete them vary, but I will try to break them down for you.

The Family Member

This should be an obvious one. We’ve all gone through this; a random aunt or third cousin, twice removed adds you to Facebook and you think to yourself, “There is no way I’m letting this broad see what I really get into after Christmas dinner.” But you can’t decline them. They’re family. So you ignore the request for a little while. Hey, maybe you don’t go on Facebook every 4 minutes and you actually only sign in, like, once a month. Maybe she sent the request the day after your monthly check-in. Right. Then you realize that no one will believe that when you change your profile picture after every meal. Dammit.

Accept request.

And there you have it. For as long as you have Facebook you now have to let this person who you have only met twice at family weddings have access to your daily shenanigans. Your 4 a.m. drunken status updates. Your third cousin, twice removed will now know just how much you love greasy pizza and hate bouncers on a power trip. You will now hear a snicker when someone offers you a drink at a family function and you reply with, “No, thanks. I don’t really drink.”

The Person From Work Who Doesn’t Respect Boundaries

I actually work with someone who adds every single person in the company to Facebook. I’m serious. I find it creepy as hell, but what can you do? You can’t decline them. How would you be able to face them every day? You just have to accept and hope for the best. Hope that you can remember they are on your friends list when you have the urge to write “I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE I WORK WITH!!!! FML!!!!” as your status on Monday mornings. Hope that you remember they’ve got access to your page when you post pictures of your secret hiding spot behind the vacant desk where you go to nap sometimes. Oh, you’ve never actually had an actual conversation with this person? Too bad. They’ve now seen pictures from that birthday where you could barely see by the end of the night. You may understand that work and your personal life need to be separated (unless of course it’s someone you would actually chill with after 5 p.m.), but they don’t understand that. So now you’re fucked.

The People You Grew Apart From But Don’t Actually Hate

When I first joined Facebook I had everyone on my shit. Elementary school people, high school folks, people I’ve worked with at every job, everyone. For the first few weeks it was exciting to see all these faces that you literally hadn’t seen or thought about for more than a decade. You saw who got married, who had kids, who got nose jobs, who got fat, who got hot. But then after you start to see their updates and pictures for a little while, you realize that there was a reason you hadn’t kept in touch with these people. Because you fucking can’t stand them.

Delete. Delete. De-fucking-lete.

But there are some of them you just can’t bring yourself to delete. For me, it’s because I don’t want to offend them, regardless of whether or not they actually give two shits about me or Facebook. These are people I still respect. People I have shared moments of my life with. People I am glad I knew at some point, even if they are people that I would have no interest in knowing if I met them today.

The thought of them one day realizing that at some point, unbeknownst to them, I decided I could no longer be burdened by the possibility of seeing their face on my computer screen anymore and deleted them makes me feel bad. And I don’t like to feel bad. So these people that I haven’t seen for years, in some cases for more than half the years I’ve been alive, will forever remain on my Facebook because of some imaginary reaction I’ve decided they may have if they ever noticed that one of their 250 friends deleted them. Who’s crazy?

The People You Love To Hate

This is the group I’m actually ashamed to admit exists. These are the people that I don’t delete because occasionally taking glimpses into their lives makes me feel better about my own. Or because their page is [unintentionally] hilarious. They are people that I probably can’t stand but at some point we became “Facebook pals” and now I use them as a reminder of how much worse things could be. Don’t misunderstand; they’re not people with terminal illnesses or 5 kids they can’t feed. They’re people who take self-portraits every 3 hours. They are people who actually think duckface is a ‘cute puckered sexy lips’ pose. They are people who wRiTe liK diZ but constantly post statuses from atop a soapbox. And most importantly, they are people who are probably reading this right now and have no idea I am talking about them.

The Person Who Just Doesn’t Get It

There is always that person who thinks being friends on a social networking site means something, anything, in the real world. They’re probably the same people who think friends can live together, too.

These people stay on my Facebook simply out of pity. I know that sounds horrible but I don’t know any other way to put it. They are people who aren’t ‘with it’ enough to ‘get it’ but at some point they’ve come into your life and you don’t know how to get rid of them without being way more harsh than they deserve. They don’t necessarily bother you. They’re more like a ticking clock, usually going unnoticed until you’re in an irritable mood or just looking for something to complain about. Then they become unbearable. But you can’t fault a clock for ticking, and you can’t fault these people for being a few cards short of a deck.

They may be naive, or innocent, or maybe they just can’t keep up. They try, though. They really do. And for that you have to give ‘em credit. I guess.

Thankfully Facebook has come up with two tools that can help you deal with all of these people:

Unsubscribe and Limited Profile. Thank GAWD.

GO. AWAY. PLEASE.

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Roommates from hell – The top 5 reasons you should live at home forever.

Bad roommates are something almost everyone can relate to. Unless you still live at home or were fortunate enough to go from mom’s to a one bedroom, you have probably lived with someone that made you yearn for your mother’s nagging at one point or another. This Canada Day will make it nine years that I’ve lived in my apartment. Nine. Years.

While that is crazy enough (I moved out when I was 20 into a dream apartment and never left), what’s crazier is the fact that instead of living alone, in peace, I continue to choose to live with roommates. I don’t do this because I’m a masochist. I do this because while I can afford my place on my own, what I can’t afford is to live on my own and continue to take vacations every few months.

Frequent vacations > Peeing with the door open.

Anyway. Enough about my dream peeing situation (do I have an obsession with pee stories?). I’m about to share with you the five worst roommate stories I have. While some of these people made horrible roommates, it doesn’t necessarily mean they were bad people (there’s my disclaimer for the few of them I’m actually still friends with who may read this). Some people just aren’t meant to live together.

*Sidenote: having had a bunch of roommates, I’m absolutely horrified when I hear about couples that are getting married before they’ve lived together. Can you hear that? I believe it’s the sound of an expedited divorce.

Here we go.

#5  Tastes like burning

As a Virgo, aka the biggest worrier of the zodiac, if there is one thing that can make me hyperventilate any time of day, it’s thinking about my apartment burning down. Besides the thought of fire making me cry, it’s also the idea that when you live in a building, it’s not just your roommate you have to worry about being a liability. Nope. You could potentially be sharing a building with hundreds – or thousands – of liabilities. One person, ONE PERSON, could forget to blow out a candle and there goes your entire life. Gone. So imagine the amount of panties I’ve had to wash after coming home to burnt stove covers or smelling something burning from my bedroom. Almost every single roommate I’ve had has burned my stove covers at one point or another. They think they’re turning one burner on but actually turn on another one, and next thing you know I’m running into the kitchen from my room yelling “WHAT’S ON FIRE?” That’s the best part. Almost every time this has happened they haven’t even noticed. All I can do is pray every night before I go to sleep that this never happens when I’m not home. Assuming, of course, my prayers about winning the lottery are ignored.

#4 Friend or foe yo state your biz

One of the most important rules I’ve learned in almost a decade of renting is this:

Never live with a friend.

There are people who claim they have lived with a friend and everything was fine. Well, there are also people who claim they can be friends with an ex. I like to call these people “delusional.”

Living with a friend is like communism – in theory it is the best idea you’ve ever had. It never works though because one person always feels more entitled. Or, one person is an angry psycho.

I once was friends with a girl for about 4 or 5 years. We’ll call her Lisa S. No, L. Simpson. At the time, I was living with the most annoying roommate I’ve ever had (who happens to be responsible for #1 on this list) so when my friend suggested we live together I almost literally jumped at the idea. Within no time I told my roommate she had to move out and the nightmare began. Before L. Simpson had even moved in we were fighting. And by “we were fighting” I really mean she was being a control freak, and over the most bullllllllshit things. But by the time I realized what was happening it was too late to do anything about it, so she moved in.

At this time I was also in school. I had a friend from class over and we were working on an assignment in my room. Because we were still awake, the light in the hallway was still on but I closed my bedroom door so we wouldn’t be too loud. It was around 11 p.m.

Not 4 a.m. 11 p.m.

Instead of turning the light off herself (ironically the light switch was right outside her bedroom door), L. Simpson decides to text me, from the next room, telling me to turn the light off because she is trying to sleep. Fuck I’ve heard of people having trouble falling asleep, but if the little bit of light that comes through the crack between your door and floor keeps you up, you have bigger problems than me. Annoyed, I responded with something stating that I was still awake, and therefore the light will probably remain on because I have a guest over and I’m not going to do homework by candlelight.

Now, if any of you know someone with a temper problem, you know that it doesn’t matter what you say or do. If they are in a bad mood/drunk/sad/mad/awake and they are looking for a fight, a fight they are going to get. People with tempers don’t actually need something specific to be said or done to flip out, they just need an opportunity. Anyway long story short, I guess my sarcasm was that opportunity because the next text I got was full of expletives and insults. At this point my friend is wondering what the eff is going on and I’m wondering what the eff is going on, so like the sane, rational person I [sometimes] am, I went over to her room and knocked on the door and said “Lisa L. Simpson, do we need to talk about something?”

“IF YOU TRY TO FUCKING OPEN MY DOOR I WILL STAB YOU IN THE FACE. IMGOINGTOSTABYOUINTHEFUCKINGFACE!!!!!!”

I’ve been hit with a wooden spoon (mom), a rainstick (brother), I’ve even been punched in the head by a drunk Indian dude at a club before (at Fluid… of course) but I had never, ever been threatened by a friend, let alone one threatening to STAB ME IN THE FACE. I’m not sure who was more shocked, me or my friend from school. All I know is I’m the one who slept with one eye open that night.

#3  Mmmmrottenmeat

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it in other posts before but my sense of smell is probably more intense than that of a Bloodhound. Or Vampire. Because of this, I tend to be quite the whiner when something doesn’t smell pleasant.  This was an actual conversation I had years ago after coming in for a shift at HMV:

Vanessa: Did someone spill coffee?

Stephen: Why?

V: Because it smells like spilled coffee.

S: Don’t you mean it smells like coffee?

V: No. It smells like spilled coffee.

S: There is no way you can smell the difference between coffee and spilled coffee!

V: Did you spill coffee or not?

S: Yes. But it was hours ago!

This is why I always joke about getting a tattoo that says The Nose Knows.

It was the first summer I was living in my apartment and I was trying to get used to living with someone who wasn’t raised as a clean-freak Italian. She was cooking ground beef, but something didn’t smell right. When she was done she said, “Aw man, this beef is rotten. What a waste.” And threw it out.

I was still working at HMV and used to do a lot of 1-9 p.m. shifts. So the next day I came home from work around 9:30 p.m. I open my apartment door and almost vomited on the spot. I have never (and still haven’t to this day) smelled anything like this inside anyone’s home. It smelled like Chinatown, on a hot as ass late summer night, when the garbage is piled along Spadina up to the sky. It was putrid. I had already forgotten about the meat from the nigh before so I was not only sick to my stomach, but confused as hell. With my shirt pulled over my face, I started sniffing around the apartment, just like the aforementioned Bloodhound would (I do this often when trying to locate where a smell, good or bad, is coming from). Eventually I reached the garbage can and opened it… and almost died. Roommate had thrown the ROTTEN meat away, but for some reason decided not to throw the garbage down the chute. So the ROTTEN meat had been sitting in the garbage now for 24 hours. I just happened to be the lucky gal who got to come home to it.

#2  Roly-Poly Fish Heads

I am a very open-minded person. Stop laughing! I am… kinda. I like trying new foods and visiting places I don’t live in and seeing how the rest of the world lives. That is, of course, unless said food and cultures gross me out. Like the dead animals hanging inside-out in Chinatown. Or eating fish heads. That shit is gross.

So you could imagine my dismay one night when I open my fridge door, looking for a nice, cool, refreshing beverage and found a pan with dried up fish heads in it. The sauce and/or grease that it had been cooked in had turned into a gel and it was undoubtedly the grossest thing that has ever been in my fridge. Not only was the sight itself disgusting, but the reason this find made it onto this list was that it wasn’t even in Tupperware. I opened my fridge and saw a pan covering another pan as a lid. How lazy do you have to be to do that? So of course, I lift the pan ‘lid’ off the pan ‘Tupperware’ to see what’s inside and BAM. This is what I see (please refer to the image at the bottom of this post).

I was so disturbed I threw both pans out immediately. Curiosity definitely killed this cat.

#1  The Environmentally Friendly Moron

As I mentioned, I have a very sensitive nose.  So sensitive that I have actually woken up in the middle of the night from a boyfriend’s farts before (unfortunately, that’s a true story). So the number one worst roommate story begins with me waking up one morning to get ready for work, just like any other day. I go into the bathroom for my morning pee and as soon as I close the door behind me I immediately smell something foul. I was the first one awake so there was no way it was a lingering smell from my roommate’s deuce, so I was confused, but still half asleep anyway. As I’m sitting there I notice the smell is stronger. I look to my left and see something sitting on top of the garbage bin. It was almost like a cartoon where I rubbed my eyes to make sure what I thought I was seeing was really what I was seeing. And yes, it was. At the top of the garbage bin was a fully used tampon, wrapped in toilet paper. But not enough toilet paper that I didn’t know it was a fully used tampon wrapped in toilet paper. It was thinly wrapped enough that the blood has seeped through it to the point you could barely tell there was anything wrapping it up at all. This foul smell was my roommates DIRTY USED TAMPON SITTING OVERNIGHT 3 INCHES AWAY FROM ME. I gagged as I emptied the garbage into a plastic bag and almost ran down the hall to the garbage chute. Maybe I thought if I did it quick enough the whole scenario would erase from my memory. Clearly, it did not.

I was fuming. What kind of a dirty pig would leave something like that overnight? I’m a woman. I get my period. I understand it’s part of life. But it’s a part you don’t just leave out in the open. It’s like leaving a used condom in the open for your roommate to see. COME ON. Who thinks that’s okay?!

Still traumatized, I spent my morning at work writing her an email. Passive-aggressive, yes. But there was no way I could wait until the next time I saw her to let her know that I was now convinced she was raised in a barn by animals. The best part of this story is that she responded to my email, condescendingly, telling me that flushing tampons down the toilet is bad for the environment and even attached a fucking link to an article about it.

Are any of you still wondering why I hate people?

 

Roly Poly Fish Heads

Yummmmmy.

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F*ck a doctor.

Well sure, you can sleep with a doctor if that’s your thing, but that’s not what I meant.

I hate doctors.

I don’t remember the last time I actually had a doctor diagnose something. My ears could be constantly ringing. I could have hives. My leg could be broken off at the knee. Doesn’t matter what I tell them. It could be the simplest of issues or the most complicated multi-tiered disease and they still won’t figure it out. For years I have been calling them Glorified Guessers and as I get older, I start to worry more and more about how important they are going to be to my survival when I’m like, 80 or something.

Nowadays, with the internetz everywhere we go, I don’t even bother going to see a doctor unless my self-diagnosis requires meds. I don’t understand how we have a shortage of doctors in this province when most people I know do the same thing – get Yahoo Answers from some know-it-all in Wisconsin and call it a day.

Today, unfortunately, I felt I required a GG’s assistance so I made an appointment. I went in and without going into too much detail (come on, I barely know you), I was given a plastic cup. You know what happens next.

As if peeing into a cup isn’t degrading enough (don’t act like you don’t get urine all over your hand, too!) at this particular office, they are sadists. The bathroom isn’t behind the door with the offices and check-up rooms. Nope. You have to go back out to the waiting room, cup in hand, past all the other people waiting, and around the reception window to get to the bathroom. Then you have to do your business with people literally sitting, in silence, 5 feet away from your… intimates. Then comes the worst part – walking past them again, this time with a cup of your own urine in your hand. Right there. Hi guys, I just peed into this cup, right over there. You probably heard it. And then heard me washing my hands for 5 minutes and using 827 paper towels to make sure there is no pee on the outside of the cup. God forbid the doctor touches my pee! Yeah, so I hope you don’t mind me walking around with this thing. I need it to, you know, figure out what’s wrong with me. Just try not to stare directly at it. Or me. Matter of fact, please hold your heads down and avert your gaze as I walk through. Thanks.

But it never happens that way, does it? No. There are no rules or etiquette regarding the moment someone fills their cup. You know why these rules don’t exist as common practices? Because someone who is designing the layout of a doctor’s office usually isn’t a moron and this issue probably doesn’t come up that often.

But enough about why. Let’s get right to it. I exit the room, with all the aforementioned shame, and tell myself not to make eye contact with anyone. But being the stubborn, curious asshole I am, I need to look at them to know if they are looking at me, and more importantly, if they know I have my own urine in my hand. As I’m looking I’m also trying to keep the urine away from me (what if I needed an 828th paper towel?) and trying to conceal it as best I can. Remember, this is all happening within about 4-6 seconds. Just as I’m 4 feet away from the door, I notice that an attractive male who looks around my age had entered the waiting room at some point while I was in the bathroom. It is at this exact moment that I am now fully moving the cup of piss behind my back, as we are looking into eachothers’ eyes. Yes. My smooth move was hiding my own pee-pee behind my back as though I was hiding a cookie from a young child. I’m pretty sure I awkwardly smiled in a ‘don’t worry, I swear it’s nothing serious’ way.

Thank Allah when I came back out he was gone. Our Missed Connection would probably read something like this:

You were holding your own pee behind your back. Did you think I didn’t notice? I did. 

I was just waiting for my girlfriend. Stop staring at me creepy pee girl.

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I’m back from Jamaica! Will start posting – regularly – asap!

I'm back from Jamaica! Will start posting - regularly - asap!

My last night in Negril, around 4 am :*(

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