Tag Archives: alcohol

Why Bitches Be Crazy

We’ve all heard or used the saying “bitches be crazy” and it’s true. Females can be extremely “crazy”. Now, now before you flip out and tell me I’m a bitch for saying females get crazy (which would be a ‘crazy bitch’ thing to do, btw), lets think about this rationally. I will use myself as an example. I have a good family. I have good friends. I have a University degree. I have a happening social life. I’m fortunate enough to be decent looking. I have a good job. I have hobbies. I have a uterus. Therefore, I am crazy and can be a bitch. I don’t know why. I just am.

Merriam-Webster defines crazy as “full of cracks or flaws; crooked, askew, mad, insane; being out of the ordinary; erratic, impractical; unusual; distracted with desire or excitement; infatuated; absurdly fond” and bitch is described as “the female of the dog or some other mammals; a lewd or immoral woman; a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse; something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant”.

Combining any of those terms together is slightly terrifying and doesn’t really encompass what a “crazy bitch” is. So in an attempt for an accurate discription of a “crazy bitch” you can log onto urbandictionary.com and read away. I will make it easy, here’s the link: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=crazy%20bitch

Now that the technical shit is out of the way, lets examine some situations in my life where I was a crazy bitch. Hold on tight for this wild ride people.

A) I once made a fake email address and emailed a bitch my boyfriend slept with, when we were on a ‘break’ (watch Friends and you’ll get it) and pretended to have had met her at a party just to try to get more info on this chick. I did this because I found naked pictures of her on his phone and didn’t believe that they weren’t in contact anymore. I was right. He asked me if I had done this because said stupid hoe chick got a weird email. I played dumb, obviously, and freaked out like a crazy bitch on him for lying to me.

B) I often creep my ex’s ex’s to see what they look like/talk like/do with their spare time. I mean creeeeeep, hard. No necessary reason for this. I don’t tell anyone I do this. I just do it. That’s crazy and stupid and probably severely damaging. I like to see if my ex’s refriend/follow them. Why? I don’t know. I am not crazy enough to do anything about it, except maybe text my ex after a few too many redneck margaritas.

C) I went through a guys phone when he was passed out because I didn’t believe that he wasn’t talking to other girls. He was and it wasn’t platonic. I took the high road and didn’t confront him, as we hadnt had the ‘exclusive’ talk. A week later he then went through my phone and was mad that I had dudes in my phone and asked me to not see anyone else. Shortly after this, he proceeded to sleep with a rando. Is your mind blown by the fuckery of the situation yet? Just wait. How did I find out he slept with said girl? Oh, yes, I saw the text convo he left open on his phone, as he handed it to me, saying he felt like a hooker because she kicked him out. I freaked out like a crazy bitch.

D) I got a late night text from an ex and went there, drunk, and started a ‘serious’ conversation asking him questions that had been on my mind and when I felt he was being shady about the answers lost it and got myself kicked out. Turns out he was lying (a big one) and I found out via creeping and confronted him, like a crazy bitch.

Do we see any patterns here people? Bitches be crazy because dudes be lying fools. If a girl asks you a question, there’s a very good chance she knows the answer or her ‘woman’s intuition’ has kicked in and she’s grasping at straws to justify your behavior. Also, all you men say you hate crazy bitches but why then do you hit me up more when I go straight certifiable on your ass but ignore me when I’m a sweetheart? Riddle me that fellas.

Moral of the post is to continue being your crazy bitch self,  in private. In public smile and nod and then take a crowbar to his shit.

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This is the story of: The Cop

The cop was a nice man. He was great. He was also a musician (which is a turn on) and a cop to boot. I do love me a man in uniform (take note single fellas – as I’m sure there are sooo many of you uniformed up men reading my blog, naht). We were set up by a coworker of mine (same one who set me up with Mix Cd Guy, only she swore this guy was awesome and admitted she didn’t really know Mix CD Guy all that well, you don’t say!). The best part of the date with The Cop wasn’t what happened on the date, it is what happened before the date. And by best part, I mean worst, obviously.

I’m a big advocate of sleep. And naps. Naps are great. I nap as often as humanly possible. So, I decided to nap before my date with The Cop. When I woke up it was with a jolt, not because my alarm went off, I forgot to set that, but because when I opened my eyes, it was absolutely black outside my window. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my phone and ran to the bathroom. I had exactly 27 minutes to eat and get ready for my date. Being that I have curly hair and straighten it most days and had just napped on it for three hours, I needed to redo it. So I plugged in the straightener and ran to grab whatever food I could get my hands on (I believe it was two cookies, a banana and orange juice, yay me). When I literally ran back to the bathroom to do my hair, I grabbed the straightener and a chunk of hair and… got my face. Yup. I burnt myself on the cheek, severely. I just held that straightener directly against my cheek, not even noticing that I had a chunk of gray skin hanging off my right cheek. Obviously, I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT!! And just as I am gawking at my burnt skin, thinking about crying, feeling adrenaline rushing through my entire body, and realizing there is a very real  possibility of a lifelong scar, The Cop texts me to say he’s running about thirty minutes late. Perfect. I put ice on my wound and do my makeup (around the gross gray chunk of face I now have) and figure that if The Cop turns out to be weird or boring, I can go for shock factor and say it’s a gang related incident.

He wasn’t boring (I have yet to use a gang related injury to shock a date, sad face). He was nice. No spark and not my type, but a nice guy. A little curious about my burn though. Being that I used to be a super nervous dater, I think he thought I was lying about how I got my burn… oh well. The Cop and I kept in touch and occasionally still talk. Before I left the big city, he even tried to set me up with someone, but the guys name was Prince and that shit ain’t cool. By the way, my face completely healed and I have no scar. Thank you genetics.

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Way Back Whenesday

I’ve had a few requests for “throwback” dating stories. By throwback, I mean long before D and the googling incident. These stories consist of my dating scaries and stories from before my “long term” boyfriend. These ones are old, like my unfertilized eggs.

Fat Not Fat and I worked together. Kind of. I worked  for an electronics company and as such, you would imagine there would be no attractive people. But there were. Myself and a couple girl friends of mine were the exceptions to the ‘no hot girls work in electronics’ hype and there were even some good looking male specimens (the really odd ducks were my favorite though, I learned so much about shit I don’t care about there). I’d worked at this establishment for a while when Fat Not Fat got hired. He was a nice looking fellow. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, he was funny and quick witted (if not a little dim in other areas of life), just my style at the time.

Fat Not Fat was friends with someone who I worked with. I actually have no idea who this person was, as the memory is that old. I think it was a dude, may have been a girl, or talking dog… but the  memory of Fat Not Fat, and the conversation that follows is as clear as breakfast this morning (coffee and a vitamin B supplement). One day said unknown coworker said “hey, Fat Not Fat thinks you’re hot and wants to ask you out” and I replied (in front of the entire staff room full of lunch eaters) “eww, no he’s fat”. Tact was not a strong suit of mine and I was really shallow then (shut up). Everyone stopped eating and stared at me. One of my good friends was in the room at the time and can attest to this… the response I got was “he’s not fat, he’s got huge muscles.” Turns out, that was a fact. And Fat Not Fat heard about what I said and still wanted to hang out with me. So we hung out. It wasn’t great, it wasn’t terrible. We hung out mainly in a group of other coworkers, drinking and dancing. It was a typical 19 year old style of dating.  The moral of the story is, not everyone who looks fat, is fat. The shirt may be unflattering and hiding large biceps. The end.

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This is the story of: Doctor

Doctor. Now, this story sounds like it would be promising, considering I met a Doctor… but… it’s me. We met at a night club. Yup, is anyone else sensing a theme with this phase of my life? It didn’t matter if I was dead exhausted, sick, crampy, or injured, you mention the words “night club” and my response was “yes, please” as I held out my cup to be filled with vodka. Anyways, I was at one of my favorite places in Vancouver and (this is all a bit hazy in my own mind, but I got the details from Doctor and my girl friends) I was walking down the stairs from the upper dance floor to the lower and was ‘beckoned’ to by a handsome man. He asked my name, I told him Mercedes (because ain’t nobody giving out their real name at a night club to a posse of men), he asked my number, I gave him a fake. He immediately texted me and asked me to check my phone. Caught. After we laughed about it and he assured me he was a nice man, I gave him my real name (not even close to Mercedes) and number and then danced away in the crowd to drink vodka waters and shake my hips to some music.

I heard from Doctor the next day (men in Vancouver seem to be rather keen on the contacting front, which is more than fine by me). We made a plan to go out for drinks (after swapping facebook information, I needed to refresh my memory after all the vodka). He picked me up at my ‘house’ (in reality it was a block over and down from my house, can’t be too safe people!) and he was in a Lexus. Excuse me!? We made small talk on our way to some Russian vodka pub (turns out he’s Russian and reallllly likes the Vodka, if you can pick up where I’m going with this, good for you). We went to this pub and had a drink and small talk. All was good , except his weird ass accent. Then we went to another pub where he plays guitar sometimes. So here I am on a date with a DOCTOR who PLAYS THE GUITAR and I’m kind of proud of drunk me, she’s really redeeming herself to sober me. *Side bar: Drunk me had made out with a dude with a massive unibrow quite recently before this* Doctor and I have another drink, then he has another, and another, and yet, another. Then he gets up to play another tune on the ole guitar (one he wrote, nbd) and he chips his tooth on the microphone. No lie. Chips his mother effin front tooth because he is so wastey pants. I would give him props for finishing the song, but he didn`t know he chipped his tooth until I pointed it out. To say the least, I got in a cab and went home. Doctor and I texted a bit for a while after that (I had to make sure he got his tooth fixed). After the appropriate amount of time I stopped responding to his texts.

To end this story, I will let you all know that Doctor texted me on my birthday (five months after we initially met), so he gets props for that (I’m choosing to view it as sweet and not creepy). I still think of him every time I think of the disease that killed Bob Marley.

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