Two random douchebags

Two nights ago, I received a text between 11pm and midnight advising me of a new Vegas phone number.

FOR A RANDOM EX FROM THREE SUMMERS AGO.

First, WTF? He still has my number saved? Two, fucking douche. I haven’t talked/seen/heard from him in slightly less than three years. Infinity: I don’t fucking care. I mean, that’s like twelve cell phones ago.

Damn, I have a lot of “fucks” in there today. My apologies. I’ll grab the soap.

Old, Creepy Douchbag (#2 on today’s list) was behind me in line at Gabriel Brothers, “Where are you going to wear those shoes?”

I would wear them to shove my foot up your ass for being a jackass, but these are off-white, and I don’t want your shit stains on my uber-cute canvas floral slip-ons. Fucker.

It’s not like they were fucking clear, spiked stripper heels, then perhaps I could understand such an inquisitive thought-he-thought-was-cute-or-something. thought…

I told him “the grocery store.” Speaking of which…

Are men bored? There are chat rooms for that, you know. Is there a book called “Check Her Out: How To Buy Her Love In The Grocery Store”?

Because really, I should write one.

A few weeks ago, some douchbag asked me in the grocery store checkout, “Why don’t you smile?”

I responded to him with because he was behind me in line sneering at me. Or something equally as snarky and mean. Event in question was not a good afternoon. I could not find what I needed for a recipe after three stores, and this dick was smelly, dirty & likely a Republican. Like, this guy had not a fucking chance in the world with me. Yeck.

Men: I FUCKING HATE THIS. And note, this is NO way to get a pleasant response. It will likely get you a can of condensed milk in the nuts.

Luckily (for him), the line was moving fast.

Plus. You live in fucking Eastlake, Douch-Carnation-Milk-Dick. Fuck off.

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