A universal topic that brings out all of the differing opinions from just about anyone you ask is the subject of love. Even those who won’t discuss religion or politics will weigh in on how one needs to go about finding a relationship. How do I find love? Where do I go to meet Mr. Right? Is there such a thing as a Mr. Right? The questions go on and on, and every matchmaker, yenta, grandmother, mother and auntie out there has an opinion on the subject, and each one of them is a self-proclaimed expert. I have met many of these ladies, and they are passionate about the subject of love. Many of them are also controlling bitches. (I’m just saying. Sorry, Auntie.)
Oprah has aired entire episodes on the differences between the sexes. (Of course she has, because we’ve all seen how well it has gone with Gail … I mean, Stedman.) Patti “The Matchmaker” Stanger speaks about the differences all of the time on her reality show. Dr. Ruth, Dear Abby, Dr. Phil and many other old ladies speak about and give advice on romance, marriage, sex and finding the perfect partner. Now, this young lady is going to weigh in on the subject and address the different types of men that are out there in the dating world. It truly is a jungle out there people, so you have to learn how to maneuver around in it like you are in f*ckin’ “Avatar.”
Here is a question I have wrestled with personally: “Does one true love even exist?” I, like many lonely ladies reading this (stroking their cats and eating rolls of cookie dough), wanted to believe that there was such a thing as a “perfect” match for each of us. If I didn’t, I would have to admit that I have been putting out for no reason … many times. (Many, many times.) To defend myself and my actions, Patti Stanger always talks about how men are attracted first physically (aka think with their dicks), so I was just being strategic by putting out. With women you stroke their minds, and with men you stroke their … you get the point. (I still say I am a … lady?) So, yes, I wish there was one perfect match for us all, but I have decided to be realistic, because I think there are many possible matches for each one of us. Like Forrest Gump says, “Life is like a box of chocolates …” and if this is true, my dating life better be Godiva and not f*ckin’ Russell Stover. (You know the brand I am talking about. You see it at Rite Aid with some damn Snoopy toy holding the cheap box of chocolates.) My box has been opened up and I have partaken in the caramels, the creams, the nuts and I still have many to go. Okaaay?
While searching for one of these amazing matches, through-out your dating career you will inevitably encounter the various types of duds that dating world has to offer. I can only speak about dating men because I am not as familiar with the types and classifications of ladies in the dating world. I do know that some would fall into the “slut” and “gold-digger” categories. I am sorry to all of the lesbian and straight men out there for my limited knowledge of women, but read on to make sure you, yourselves, know what category you fall into.
After years of dating, or research, if you will, I have tagged and studied many men. I have communicated with, sampled and measured all of these men. (Like f*ckin’ Gorillas in the Mist.) I have dedicated my young life to science. I have taken many for the team, so that I could pass on my knowledge. What you are about to read, I hope, will enlighten you and will help you to avoid the man I classify as the undatable. Are the dramatics necessary? Hellz ya! (Bitch knows how to entertain.)
The five types of men in the dating world are (could a bitch get a drum roll please): The Player, The Douchebag, The Puppy Dog, The Chameleon and The Unicorn. I know that as many of you read this, you will look back and realize you have sampled some of these types as well along your way. Let me dive in and shed some light on the variations.
The Player
If you read my dating story about little “Peso,” then you know I have encountered this type. He was obviously a Player, just not a good one. I have to admit that I too early on had fallen victim to Players.
This type of man has one goal and one goal only, and that is to get the f*ck off. (Shoot his load! Blow his wad! I think you get it.) He may actually be fun in bed, and you will think he is amazing for giving you one hell of an “O,” but do not attempt to cage and date this man. (He could also turn out to be a 10-second man. Beware!) This man is not mature enough to commit and may never get to that point.
The Player comes in all ages. He knows how to sweet talk. He knows which buttons to push. He will speak a lot about wanting to commit. Listen to your gut, my friend, and stay clear of this type. We all fall victim to The Player at some point, and looking back we knew all along he wasn’t the one. He talks a big game. Many of us have been caught in the sea of possibility, and we drift away from the shore of reality. Once you realize, if you do, you’d better yank the f*ckin’ rope to your little engine and get your boat back to shore.
I say this to those of you who are actually out to find love and a mate. If, though, you know what he is and accept the limits of this one-night relationship, then God bless you, and I hope it turns out to be one hot night! I never said sex with The Player was wrong, but you need to be on the same page for this to not turn out negatively. With time you will be able to spot these men with ease.
The Douchebag
In 2001 I met a muscular, tall, handsome guy with olive complexion, and I will call Douche-Trick. This guy was the clinical definition of a Douche, but because I was newly out, I let it go on for a little while. He talked about himself all of the time and rarely asked me anything. He wanted to get off but was not attentive in return. When he would go out with my friends and I, he would whisper things to me like, “I am only here because you want me to be here.” What it came down to was that he wanted arm candy, and I was top of the line from that department. I ended that shit right after he kept sighing loudly from boredom at a friend’s show that we attended. (Even naive Colbs didn’t play like that.)
This “man” is easy to spot. From the moment you step into this date you will know that this man has a lot of growing up to do. He is all about himself, and you are just a guest in his world. We all could end up dating this guy for a while because of our low self-esteem or we try and overlook his shortcomings.
If you date this man, you will end up annoyed, and it will end. This break up is not usually a nice one. All of the rage and resentment will come out, but The Douchebag doesn’t understand any flaws that exist in him. You get even more p*ssed off because he says something brilliant like, “You’re not even my type.” (After a month of dating.)
We all know him. This is a date where escaping out the window in the bathroom or calling a friend to rescue you is perfectly acceptable ... let him dwell alone in his self-centered pool of douche slop.
The Puppy Dog
Oh, the Puppy Dog boys. My pet, “Fido,” was a very nice guy. Fido was sweet and attentive, and he was very eager. I knew we had issues when his friends came up to me at a bar after date two and they referred to me as their friend’s new boyfriend. The final straw was when he said, “I love you,” on date three. That sh*t had to be snipped in the bud! Fido was sent to the pound.
The Puppy Dog appears to be perfect, at first. You may find his dotting behavior and compliments to be endearing. He is so nice to be around because you feel like a Queen. (Heeey!) Then you realize he is following you around on his leash of codependence. The Puppy Dog needs to sprout a pair before he is datable.
This type is usually identified after spending a little bit of time with him. The break up process can be messy as hell. It is usually emotional and may take several firm “NOs” before he gets that it’s over. He will then go the complete opposite end of the spectrum (Cujo) and demand things like the 12 mixed CDs he made you in seven days have to be returned. My advice is you FedEx that sh*t back and change your number.
P.S. His friends will also hate you because you “hurt” their friend. Boo hoo!
The Chameleon
My only Chameleon was a wonderful guy. I will refer to him as “M.” M was a nice guy. He was great on paper and was very cute. After a few weeks, I realized M had started to talk to my friends on the side, was eating how I was eating (the Raw Food lifestyle), and was complimenting me all of the time. He was changing to be what he thought I wanted him to be. He was acting like me, and I am not into dating myself.
The Chameleon is similar to the Puppy Dog, but he doesn’t know how to be himself when dating. He doesn’t want to screw anything up, and combining this with low self-esteem, he molds himself into a reflection of the other person. He doesn’t want to make waves and upset the person he is dating because that could bring an end to the relationship.
This trickster is the most difficult to spot because it takes some time to notice these changes. Once you do, you may be able to talk to him about the situation and encourage him to move in a direction that would allow him to be himself. If he is open enough and mature enough, things could change and be salvaged. Be aware that this can also backfire into some “Single White Female” sh*t. In my opinion, give a little nudge, but see how he reacts, and most likely you move on.
The Unicorn
Like I said in the beginning, I don’t believe in the idea of one perfect match in your lifetime. I believe you will meet a few amazing loves (if you are a lucky lady), and each will bring joy to your life. The Unicorn is “Mr. Perfect.” These men are Gerard Butler in, “P.S. I Love You.” (He ruined me for any other man.) The Unicorn will bring you laughter, happiness, affection and found memories. You will learn a great deal in these types of relationships. The Unicorn embodies the full package and should be held onto and experienced to the fullest.
In my life I have had several amazing boyfriends. Looking back I cannot say I was in “True Love,” and these men were not my mystical Unicorn, but I know they are, or will be, someone else’s perfect match.
You will know-I hope this is true-him when you find him, so keep your eyes and hearts open. These men are few and far between.
So, be careful out there. In the movies there are relationships like in “Revolutionary Road,” “Sleeping With the Enemy” and “American Psycho.” Those are the kind of relationships that we want to avoid. Those end negatively and most of the time we get jacked up physically and emotionally while in them. (Gurl, if you remember little Julia running for her d*mn life … shooot.) Then we see movies like “Titanic” and “Pretty Woman” and we fall in love with the idea of “true love.” We are ready to brave sinking ships while working as a prostitute just to meet the man of our dreams. (I loved me some Leo, but f*ck that, I am letting goooo and jumping into a heated blanket on a life boat. Okaaay?)
When on a date, trust your instincts and take care of yourself. Why waste your time with the wrong one, just to have someone in your life? Move on and keep your eyes forward so that you don’t miss what is coming down the road. There are plenty of fish in the sea, as they say, but you have to be selective about what you keep and what you throw back. There are a lot more puffer-fish, bottom-dwellers, eels and sharks compared to the lovely dolphins. Learn how to tell the difference quickly.
If this doesn’t make you think about dating in a different way, let me leave you with a little piece of information I was going to leave out. There is a sixth man on the dating scene. He is … The Creeper. I have seen more Creepers in my time then any other kind. Luckily, it is rare to end up on an actual date with a Creeper, but if you do, get the f*ck out! One of my favorite Creeper stories was when an older man came up to me with a drink at a club. I saw him coming and I tried to play it cool. He said to me, “I brought this over to you.” I was svelte, 22 and new on the scene. This was normal, but I was not going to take some Ruffie on the Rocks from this sex offender-looking Creeper. I told him I didn’t drink and tried to get my friends’ attention. He then said, “You’re cute. You remind me of my nephew.” (Eeew!) Oh yes, ladies, he sure did. I didn’t say a word, but I sure did walk away. The Creeper is an opportunistic lowlife who will pay for it, if the ruffies don’t work on guys like me.
Use you head. Be prepared to take care of business. Trust your gut. If you do those things, then you will be fine. Happy dating!
April 24, 2010
April 16, 2010
YOU’RE A CHEATING WHORE AND HERE’S WHY!
In the April 2007 issue of Chatelaine, psychotherapist M. Gary Neuman shared his expertise regarding emotional cheating. He states, "It's easier for a couple to get over a one-night stand than an emotional affair." This is because a one-night stand is meaningless and doesn't involve true feelings or personal thoughts. An emotional affair, on the other hand, occurs when deep connections are forged. It's more loving and connected than the physical act of sex.
I am so happy M. Gary Neuman feels this way, and though “experts” may agree, I have a different opinion on this topic. (My opinion is really what you all want to read about, right?) Mr. Neuman has a Ph.D. (isn’t he grand?), but I am f*cking brilliant! Let’s put the “psychology” aside and say it like it is, shall we? Cheating is cheating. If you are screwing with the brain, or with what God gave you down below, it’s all cheating. Cheating and cheaters are very simple to analyze.
I know that this will all seem very bitter, and I know it must sound like a woman scorned, so let me clear some sh*t up. I have never been cheated on, nor have I cheated on someone. I am not some crazy dramatic bitch who wants to go off about men that have done me wrong. I simply have a passionate contempt for cheaters. Cheating annoys me even more then when Big Girls try and play off their size and act like they hardly eat, and are like they are some baby bird or Karen Carpenter. “I am so full. All I had was like a salad today, and I just don’t care for things that are too sweet.” Really? Call your canckles and tell them you only eat “salad.” (Wow! That does sound bitter and mean! Love it!) So, I promised that my blog would have the grit of real life, and though this may be heavy, here is how I feel.
SIDE NOTE: To all of my exes, please don’t contact me and tell me NOW that you actually did cheat. At this point you would just be a major douche-bag. Let us both go to the grave without having to rehash anything from the past. We broke up for a reason, so don’t make me even more right. Deal?
So, the doctor obviously has his credentials, and I have mine. There are three reasons that I am qualified to talk about relationships, and after a month of advice giving, I thought you should know more about me. The first, I have dated a great deal. A tremendous amount if you will. What that means is I have done … a lot of f*cking. (Okaaay?) I have also learned how relationships work, and what healthy communication is all about. The second reason is that I have played matchmaker on many occasions. I will not match people, and put my stamp of approval on them, as a couple, unless I am sure they are a perfect fit. Three of the couples who are results of my expertise have been together over two years. I assume that whatever brown or yellow baby they get from some foreign land will be called Colby. (Boy or girl, it really works. No?) The final reason is I am a god d*mn MTV star! Alright, I may not be a star (yet), but I did play the “Dating Coach/Host” on a few episodes of a horribly pathetic dating show on MTV. It was like Queer Eye fixing a geeky gay guy up on a blind date, but with no budget. I like to think I was chosen for being easy on the eyes, and for knowing a thing or two about dating. Now you know why I am the one to listen to. (Was it up for debate?)
Now, on with the show! I don’t believe that anyone can convince me that there is an acceptable reason that would justify cheating. I was doing some research, and here is how Webster’s defines cheating.
Webster’s Definition of “Cheat”:
1 : to deprive of something valuable by the use of deceit or fraud
2 : to influence or lead by deceit, trick, or artifice
3 : to elude or thwart by or as if by outwitting
Webster’s knows some stuff about cheating and has it right on all accounts. When a man or a woman cheats, the trollop deprives you (the non-cheater) of your dignity and trust, by using deceit and fraud as weapons. When someone cheats, they deceive and trick their partner, and possibly the person (or people) they have selected to cheat with. Finally, the cheater definitely eludes and tries to outwit all involved, so that his cheating ass is not caught. Do I think cheaters set out to be such dishonest masterminds? No. I think they get horny and feel less than confident, and they make a choice. What happens after the choice is made is where the eluding and deceit really come into play.
Oh, but cheaters try to play it off and make it someone else’s fault. Askmen.com posted the top 10 reasons cheaters give for their actions. Here are the reasons, and how I weigh in. I will try and check the anger a bit. (These “reasons” just show that they are truly poop stains on the underwear of life.)
10. My lady (or man) doesn’t put out.
Me breaking it down: If your partner is not putting out, maybe you should spend the time and energy communicating with them about why they don’t want to have sex and about their needs before you have some other bitch tickle your lonely pickle. Maybe it is you and your newly acquired Beer Gut that is turning him/her off. Seek to understand before being an assh*le!
9. She/he cheated on me first.
Me breaking it down: Wah! Wah! Two wrongs don’t make a right. Maybe you should have ended it when she/he cheated on you, because it sounds like there is lots of sex going on, but not between the two of you. Revenge sex is never the answer, and your relationship is doomed, so let each other go. In addition, please don’t breed because the world has enough assh*oles with sh*t for brains.
8. It’s challenging and exciting.
Me breaking it down: This makes it sound like cheating is some kind of Safari hunt looking for a rare beast with a great rack. Yes, the hunt for a new partner is exciting. New bodies are enticing. New holes are intriguing. I get it all of that. With that being said, when you are in a relationship, you have to keep things exciting. So, if you are off hunting for new prey, you are obviously checked out on the current relationship. End what is not working, especially if you aren’t willing to put the time and effort into the current relationship. Man up and move on, and save the drama and hurt for you both. If you are willing to postpone baring the bone, chart new waters with your partner and pick up a new toy, or try some hot role-playing, or perfect a kinky position. (Two words … Stretch first!)
7. I can get away with it.
Me breaking it down: I think Ted Bundy thought this way too. You may “get away with it” for the time being, but the truth always comes back to bite you in the ass. (Don’t you watch “CSI”?) If you do “get away with it,” what does that make you? King of the dickhead liars? Wow, you are really amazing and should be proud. Grow up, and to quote annoying Bethenny on Real Housewives of New York, “Get a hobby.”
6. It boosts my ego.
Me breaking it down: THIS is what I believe cheating always comes down to. The cheater needs to feel desirable, young and hung, and for some reason he can’t settle for being the focus of only one person. That one person being the person he supposedly loves. He feels that he needs millions of fans like he is some kind of cock-ed out Rock Star. He needs to know he still “has it.” People, true confidence goes without saying and without proving it. The singer Sting has been married to the same woman for many years now, and his confidence is f*ckin’ sexy. He makes my (and her) panties wet … let me tell you. Truly secure and confident men and woman can commit to one person and still be HOT. They don’t need to cheat with every piece of ass that walks by to prove something to the world.
5. The opportunity was there.
Me breaking it down: If your wallet was sitting on a table, and it had $1,000 in it, and I took it, what would you think about that? The opportunity was there and I needed it, so it’s ok? Just because the opportunity comes up, does that mean you have to f*ck someone new? Get a mutha’ f*ckin’ clue! How about you go home and create some new hot possibilities with your current partner, and I assure you that your partner is going to get interested. Everyone wants to feel wanted, so go light the flame in her/his honey pot.
4. My girlfriend (partner) is a nag.
Me breaking it down: Let me tell you something, our partners can feel when things are slipping. They can tell when something is up. The nagging might be their way of figuring things out. It might be her/his way of trying to get you to talk--or even yell--so communication doesn’t die all together. How about you don’t make them nag and express what you really want to say. Just like anyone of us, your partner wants to be acknowledged and listened to.
3. Women (the other man) let me.
Me breaking it down: This is so true. There are always going to be men and women out there who are sexual and have needs. And you can always find a horny son of a bitch who will let you stick it in, or stick it in you. It’s along the same lines as the opportunity being there. We can always make or find opportunity with someone. It doesn’t make it right. Grow up you lying turd!
2. My partner doesn’t turn me on anymore.
Me breaking it down: Who said you f*ckin’ did it for them. When was the last time you flicked their bean or stroked their snake? Maybe your “working late” upset her/him, and yes/he she took part in some emotional eating, which was followed by emotional weight gain. Maybe she had your kids, and has no time to also be your sex toy. Maybe you are a douche bag? How about you find that person you once loved. Go on date nights. Work out together. If you loved your partner once, it is worth trying. Hell, tell them that you want her/him to strap one on and pound you up the backside, if that is what you need in bed! Do that instead of finding your friend’s wife or husband to express that to during the 4th of July BBQ.
1. I don’t love her/him anymore.
Me breaking it down: This is the worst of them all. Be honest with yourself and maybe you will see you never loved her/him to begin with. Maybe you will see it is your issues and low self-esteem that is making you doubt things. Maybe you need to communicate and move on, and figure out what “love” really means to you. Just because you don’t love your partner anymore, doesn’t mean she/he doesn’t love you. She/he is a human being, and love or not, their feelings should matter. Move on, but give her/him the right to move on too.
These excuses make me laugh out loud. The way cheaters think is so narrow and confused with hormones. In his head, because he “wants,” this means he should “have.” If someone said, “I don’t love you anymore; therefore, I had to stick my dick in something else” or, “The guy let me, and I could get away with it.” I would, in addition to beating his ass, laugh in his face. It all comes down to ego and wanting to feel wanted. I tell all my boyfriends up-front, “Be honest with me. If you “need” to cheat and stick it in some other hole, tell me, so that I can make a choice to let you do that with my blessing, or so I can move on.” They don’t get to have their cake and eat it too with me. If two people communicate, then two people can avoid hurting each other.
F*ck me over once … shame on you. F*ck me over twice … shame on me. Unless, I didn’t know about any of the f*cking, and then it is still all on you. (Colby is usually right.)
I always read the gossips magazines and I love that sh*t. I eat that garbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I love the pictures and the dirt. If you have been reading these magazines over the last few months, you know all about Sandra and Jessie, Tiger and all the other celebs that are allegedly cheating. I don’t get it. Normally, these men (rarely is it a woman who is caught) have beautiful wives, but it just shows that it is not about getting something better, but proving to themselves they still can get something new. They need to know that they still have game.
You will also notice that they pick horrid women. The kind of women that should come along with some complimentary Penicillin after the BJ. I mean really, Jessie and his Swastika-sporting-skank-is he kidding us with that? That is just disgusting. She has W and P near her cooch. Whether it stands for “White Power,” or “Wet P*ssy,” she is pure trailer. She is a great example, along with all of Tiger’s strippers, that these men are not thinking with the proper head. Go after quality if you are going to do it. Pick women who don’t need to see you out for a quick buck, embarrass everyone involved. Am I wrong people? I feel bad for the wives and partners. Real men and women don’t need such cheap displays to stroke their egos. If they truly cared about their loved one and respected themselves, they would not need to lie and cheat. I would hope that “love” would supersede the stroking of their little egos.
Our whole culture loves scandal, and cheating always gives us a heaping plate of it. “Fatal Attraction” gave it to us on the big screen, and we ate that sh*t up. We love the drama. We put off paying bills. We tell white lies. We cheat on our wives. We do things, maybe subconsciously, that makes us feel like we are taking a risk. How exciting! “Fatal Attraction” should have scared any penis in the audience into submissions especially after the bunny scene and the bathtub scene. (Glenn, you are one crazy bitch!)
There are many related topics that I could weigh in on (and will one day), such as open relationships, once a cheater always a cheater, and staying together for the kids. (Answers: No, most likely and they will be more fucked up in that household if you stay together.) I know there are multiple factors, and each situation is different, but cheating is never acceptable. It hurts people and causes drama that is not needed in anyone’s lives. The outcome is not worth the minutes of thrusting and pumping.
What my message boils down to is that cheaters, or those tempted to cheat, need to get over the egos and communicate their wants and needs or figure out how to get to the bottom of why they are doing this sh*t. If you are meant to live happily ever after with your current partner, work it the f*ck out. If you realize you need to move on, then do so before you make a mistake. If you need it strapped on, then get what you need with the right partner. I am not saying be unhappy, but I am saying be respectful of all parties involved. Your needs don’t get to put your physical wants above someone else’s well-being and emotional health.
Once you are single, go fuck a rabid raccoon while getting your salad tossed by some trashy porn star for all I care. It is your life to mess up if you choose to. You may be okay with living on the Titanic, but don’t take someone else down with you. Single life allows you those freedoms, so be single. But, if you say you love someone and want to be married to, or dating them, then you keep it in your pants, and live up to your word. If ever you get the urge to chase after new tail, or if you aren’t getting something you want at home, then communicate. If you are honest and communicate, things will end up a lot better in the long run. We all know right from wrong, and I don’t think any of us dreamed of growing up to be a douche-cheating liar. Take my boy, Sting, and be true to your word and to the person you say you love.
If you do cheat, man-up and confess, and don’t let Glenn Close boil your bunny instead. Trust when I say, your partner doesn’t want to find out that way.
I am so happy M. Gary Neuman feels this way, and though “experts” may agree, I have a different opinion on this topic. (My opinion is really what you all want to read about, right?) Mr. Neuman has a Ph.D. (isn’t he grand?), but I am f*cking brilliant! Let’s put the “psychology” aside and say it like it is, shall we? Cheating is cheating. If you are screwing with the brain, or with what God gave you down below, it’s all cheating. Cheating and cheaters are very simple to analyze.
I know that this will all seem very bitter, and I know it must sound like a woman scorned, so let me clear some sh*t up. I have never been cheated on, nor have I cheated on someone. I am not some crazy dramatic bitch who wants to go off about men that have done me wrong. I simply have a passionate contempt for cheaters. Cheating annoys me even more then when Big Girls try and play off their size and act like they hardly eat, and are like they are some baby bird or Karen Carpenter. “I am so full. All I had was like a salad today, and I just don’t care for things that are too sweet.” Really? Call your canckles and tell them you only eat “salad.” (Wow! That does sound bitter and mean! Love it!) So, I promised that my blog would have the grit of real life, and though this may be heavy, here is how I feel.
SIDE NOTE: To all of my exes, please don’t contact me and tell me NOW that you actually did cheat. At this point you would just be a major douche-bag. Let us both go to the grave without having to rehash anything from the past. We broke up for a reason, so don’t make me even more right. Deal?
So, the doctor obviously has his credentials, and I have mine. There are three reasons that I am qualified to talk about relationships, and after a month of advice giving, I thought you should know more about me. The first, I have dated a great deal. A tremendous amount if you will. What that means is I have done … a lot of f*cking. (Okaaay?) I have also learned how relationships work, and what healthy communication is all about. The second reason is that I have played matchmaker on many occasions. I will not match people, and put my stamp of approval on them, as a couple, unless I am sure they are a perfect fit. Three of the couples who are results of my expertise have been together over two years. I assume that whatever brown or yellow baby they get from some foreign land will be called Colby. (Boy or girl, it really works. No?) The final reason is I am a god d*mn MTV star! Alright, I may not be a star (yet), but I did play the “Dating Coach/Host” on a few episodes of a horribly pathetic dating show on MTV. It was like Queer Eye fixing a geeky gay guy up on a blind date, but with no budget. I like to think I was chosen for being easy on the eyes, and for knowing a thing or two about dating. Now you know why I am the one to listen to. (Was it up for debate?)
Now, on with the show! I don’t believe that anyone can convince me that there is an acceptable reason that would justify cheating. I was doing some research, and here is how Webster’s defines cheating.
Webster’s Definition of “Cheat”:
1 : to deprive of something valuable by the use of deceit or fraud
2 : to influence or lead by deceit, trick, or artifice
3 : to elude or thwart by or as if by outwitting
Webster’s knows some stuff about cheating and has it right on all accounts. When a man or a woman cheats, the trollop deprives you (the non-cheater) of your dignity and trust, by using deceit and fraud as weapons. When someone cheats, they deceive and trick their partner, and possibly the person (or people) they have selected to cheat with. Finally, the cheater definitely eludes and tries to outwit all involved, so that his cheating ass is not caught. Do I think cheaters set out to be such dishonest masterminds? No. I think they get horny and feel less than confident, and they make a choice. What happens after the choice is made is where the eluding and deceit really come into play.
Oh, but cheaters try to play it off and make it someone else’s fault. Askmen.com posted the top 10 reasons cheaters give for their actions. Here are the reasons, and how I weigh in. I will try and check the anger a bit. (These “reasons” just show that they are truly poop stains on the underwear of life.)
10. My lady (or man) doesn’t put out.
Me breaking it down: If your partner is not putting out, maybe you should spend the time and energy communicating with them about why they don’t want to have sex and about their needs before you have some other bitch tickle your lonely pickle. Maybe it is you and your newly acquired Beer Gut that is turning him/her off. Seek to understand before being an assh*le!
9. She/he cheated on me first.
Me breaking it down: Wah! Wah! Two wrongs don’t make a right. Maybe you should have ended it when she/he cheated on you, because it sounds like there is lots of sex going on, but not between the two of you. Revenge sex is never the answer, and your relationship is doomed, so let each other go. In addition, please don’t breed because the world has enough assh*oles with sh*t for brains.
8. It’s challenging and exciting.
Me breaking it down: This makes it sound like cheating is some kind of Safari hunt looking for a rare beast with a great rack. Yes, the hunt for a new partner is exciting. New bodies are enticing. New holes are intriguing. I get it all of that. With that being said, when you are in a relationship, you have to keep things exciting. So, if you are off hunting for new prey, you are obviously checked out on the current relationship. End what is not working, especially if you aren’t willing to put the time and effort into the current relationship. Man up and move on, and save the drama and hurt for you both. If you are willing to postpone baring the bone, chart new waters with your partner and pick up a new toy, or try some hot role-playing, or perfect a kinky position. (Two words … Stretch first!)
7. I can get away with it.
Me breaking it down: I think Ted Bundy thought this way too. You may “get away with it” for the time being, but the truth always comes back to bite you in the ass. (Don’t you watch “CSI”?) If you do “get away with it,” what does that make you? King of the dickhead liars? Wow, you are really amazing and should be proud. Grow up, and to quote annoying Bethenny on Real Housewives of New York, “Get a hobby.”
6. It boosts my ego.
Me breaking it down: THIS is what I believe cheating always comes down to. The cheater needs to feel desirable, young and hung, and for some reason he can’t settle for being the focus of only one person. That one person being the person he supposedly loves. He feels that he needs millions of fans like he is some kind of cock-ed out Rock Star. He needs to know he still “has it.” People, true confidence goes without saying and without proving it. The singer Sting has been married to the same woman for many years now, and his confidence is f*ckin’ sexy. He makes my (and her) panties wet … let me tell you. Truly secure and confident men and woman can commit to one person and still be HOT. They don’t need to cheat with every piece of ass that walks by to prove something to the world.
5. The opportunity was there.
Me breaking it down: If your wallet was sitting on a table, and it had $1,000 in it, and I took it, what would you think about that? The opportunity was there and I needed it, so it’s ok? Just because the opportunity comes up, does that mean you have to f*ck someone new? Get a mutha’ f*ckin’ clue! How about you go home and create some new hot possibilities with your current partner, and I assure you that your partner is going to get interested. Everyone wants to feel wanted, so go light the flame in her/his honey pot.
4. My girlfriend (partner) is a nag.
Me breaking it down: Let me tell you something, our partners can feel when things are slipping. They can tell when something is up. The nagging might be their way of figuring things out. It might be her/his way of trying to get you to talk--or even yell--so communication doesn’t die all together. How about you don’t make them nag and express what you really want to say. Just like anyone of us, your partner wants to be acknowledged and listened to.
3. Women (the other man) let me.
Me breaking it down: This is so true. There are always going to be men and women out there who are sexual and have needs. And you can always find a horny son of a bitch who will let you stick it in, or stick it in you. It’s along the same lines as the opportunity being there. We can always make or find opportunity with someone. It doesn’t make it right. Grow up you lying turd!
2. My partner doesn’t turn me on anymore.
Me breaking it down: Who said you f*ckin’ did it for them. When was the last time you flicked their bean or stroked their snake? Maybe your “working late” upset her/him, and yes/he she took part in some emotional eating, which was followed by emotional weight gain. Maybe she had your kids, and has no time to also be your sex toy. Maybe you are a douche bag? How about you find that person you once loved. Go on date nights. Work out together. If you loved your partner once, it is worth trying. Hell, tell them that you want her/him to strap one on and pound you up the backside, if that is what you need in bed! Do that instead of finding your friend’s wife or husband to express that to during the 4th of July BBQ.
1. I don’t love her/him anymore.
Me breaking it down: This is the worst of them all. Be honest with yourself and maybe you will see you never loved her/him to begin with. Maybe you will see it is your issues and low self-esteem that is making you doubt things. Maybe you need to communicate and move on, and figure out what “love” really means to you. Just because you don’t love your partner anymore, doesn’t mean she/he doesn’t love you. She/he is a human being, and love or not, their feelings should matter. Move on, but give her/him the right to move on too.
These excuses make me laugh out loud. The way cheaters think is so narrow and confused with hormones. In his head, because he “wants,” this means he should “have.” If someone said, “I don’t love you anymore; therefore, I had to stick my dick in something else” or, “The guy let me, and I could get away with it.” I would, in addition to beating his ass, laugh in his face. It all comes down to ego and wanting to feel wanted. I tell all my boyfriends up-front, “Be honest with me. If you “need” to cheat and stick it in some other hole, tell me, so that I can make a choice to let you do that with my blessing, or so I can move on.” They don’t get to have their cake and eat it too with me. If two people communicate, then two people can avoid hurting each other.
F*ck me over once … shame on you. F*ck me over twice … shame on me. Unless, I didn’t know about any of the f*cking, and then it is still all on you. (Colby is usually right.)
I always read the gossips magazines and I love that sh*t. I eat that garbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I love the pictures and the dirt. If you have been reading these magazines over the last few months, you know all about Sandra and Jessie, Tiger and all the other celebs that are allegedly cheating. I don’t get it. Normally, these men (rarely is it a woman who is caught) have beautiful wives, but it just shows that it is not about getting something better, but proving to themselves they still can get something new. They need to know that they still have game.
You will also notice that they pick horrid women. The kind of women that should come along with some complimentary Penicillin after the BJ. I mean really, Jessie and his Swastika-sporting-skank-is he kidding us with that? That is just disgusting. She has W and P near her cooch. Whether it stands for “White Power,” or “Wet P*ssy,” she is pure trailer. She is a great example, along with all of Tiger’s strippers, that these men are not thinking with the proper head. Go after quality if you are going to do it. Pick women who don’t need to see you out for a quick buck, embarrass everyone involved. Am I wrong people? I feel bad for the wives and partners. Real men and women don’t need such cheap displays to stroke their egos. If they truly cared about their loved one and respected themselves, they would not need to lie and cheat. I would hope that “love” would supersede the stroking of their little egos.
Our whole culture loves scandal, and cheating always gives us a heaping plate of it. “Fatal Attraction” gave it to us on the big screen, and we ate that sh*t up. We love the drama. We put off paying bills. We tell white lies. We cheat on our wives. We do things, maybe subconsciously, that makes us feel like we are taking a risk. How exciting! “Fatal Attraction” should have scared any penis in the audience into submissions especially after the bunny scene and the bathtub scene. (Glenn, you are one crazy bitch!)
There are many related topics that I could weigh in on (and will one day), such as open relationships, once a cheater always a cheater, and staying together for the kids. (Answers: No, most likely and they will be more fucked up in that household if you stay together.) I know there are multiple factors, and each situation is different, but cheating is never acceptable. It hurts people and causes drama that is not needed in anyone’s lives. The outcome is not worth the minutes of thrusting and pumping.
What my message boils down to is that cheaters, or those tempted to cheat, need to get over the egos and communicate their wants and needs or figure out how to get to the bottom of why they are doing this sh*t. If you are meant to live happily ever after with your current partner, work it the f*ck out. If you realize you need to move on, then do so before you make a mistake. If you need it strapped on, then get what you need with the right partner. I am not saying be unhappy, but I am saying be respectful of all parties involved. Your needs don’t get to put your physical wants above someone else’s well-being and emotional health.
Once you are single, go fuck a rabid raccoon while getting your salad tossed by some trashy porn star for all I care. It is your life to mess up if you choose to. You may be okay with living on the Titanic, but don’t take someone else down with you. Single life allows you those freedoms, so be single. But, if you say you love someone and want to be married to, or dating them, then you keep it in your pants, and live up to your word. If ever you get the urge to chase after new tail, or if you aren’t getting something you want at home, then communicate. If you are honest and communicate, things will end up a lot better in the long run. We all know right from wrong, and I don’t think any of us dreamed of growing up to be a douche-cheating liar. Take my boy, Sting, and be true to your word and to the person you say you love.
If you do cheat, man-up and confess, and don’t let Glenn Close boil your bunny instead. Trust when I say, your partner doesn’t want to find out that way.
April 9, 2010
LIVER SPOTTED SCROTUMS ARE NOT MY PASSION IN LIFE!
“Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.” – Joss Whedon
Mr. Whedon, I declare! (Yes, said like Miss. Scarlett O’Hara) I did not see that coming! I am touched and inspired. I can hear him now in San Diego at Geekic Con, speaking to a bunch of comic book-holding virgins dressed like Klingons. NuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'… oh yes, that was indeed Klingon. Geeks everywhere, simmer down. Before you all bust a nut prematurely in your sensible Fruit of the Looms, all I could find was, “Where is the bathroom?” (I was looking for, “Yippie! I finally touched a boobie!”) God bless all the Comic Con, Renaissance Fair and Wizard and Warrior freaks. If we didn’t have them to compare to, I wouldn’t be quite as hot. You can’t have the light with out the dark.
If you have been reading my blog, you know that I love, no, relish in, placing judgment and categorizing folks. What I am about to reveal about myself is not something that I like to admit, and if was someone else admitting to this, I would eat them alive. In my opinion, what is behind the fabulous curtain should never be revealed, so I apologize if I ruin the glamour that is Colby. I know that it’s hard to imagine, but I, a spectacular sex god, am a closeted … supernatural-loving-geek. Anything supernatural! I eat that sh*t up! (I am coming out! Hand me my pocket protector!)
Speaking of Mr. Whedon, I love me some “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”! I said it! I can’t get enough of watching some little blonde chick kicking supernatural ass. (Very lez-liscious!) The way I am with vampires (Team Edward! He sparkles like diamonds!) and monsters, is the way 11-year-old girls scream over that whore Miley Cyrus. My shame is now public, but I will accept it and keep watching “The Vampire Diaries,” “Supernatural,” “True Blood,” “Charmed” reruns, and many more shows and movies of that genre. I am free! You might be wondering, why is this bitch talking about vampires and shit? Let me explain how this is going to come back around to a point.
I appreciate Joss Whedon because you can tell he loves what he does. He creates worlds filled with characters that you can tell he cares about. He chases his passion and is successful because of that. I love any man who puts David Boreanaz in two shows. (Someone wipe my chair. Okkaay?) I also appreciate Oprah (doesn’t everyone?) because she has built her universe (and ass) from her drive and passion (… for food). The bitch is a bit cray-cray I truly believe, but she is amazing. All that power, fame and followers will make anyone completely full of themselves. (Just one fan and I think I am that whore Miley Cyrus.) Both of these people found their passion and went for it, and that is what I want to talk about. That is what I want to do in my own life. What is my passion? (Really someone tell me!)
I don’t base “passion” only on career choices and monetary success. (Though I would roll in a pile of cash like a little piggy in mud!) I think that chasing any goal or dream with gusto is amazing. That could be anything from starting a charity to starting a family. You have to find what will make you feel energized and hold on to that. My two best friends are a lesbian couple. I love me some lesbians! (I wish I had a tool belt wearin-lesbian as a boyfriend sometimes!) My dear friends have built a beautiful family with a handsome (and very smart) little son, whom I adore. That is success and it should be cherished. Watch me get all mushy! Feelings? (It hurts.)
Again, what is my passion? Where do I find it?
Since I arrived in Los Angeles, I have gone back and forth about freeing up time to act. I want to have an income that keeps me on the comfortable side (no starving waiter for me), but with a “real” job comes the normal nice-to-five schedule. So, what is a girl to do? Night job? Day job? Waiter? Actor? More money? No money? AHHHHHH! (Slap me, I am panicking!)
I know when I came here I had passion and drive. Where did it go? Did I lose it completely? I have a hunch that while on my journey over the last six years, a few of the jobs I have held along the way have sucked the life out of me. I will never forget them, and I will never set foot in one of them again. They were so off my path, and submerged me in such negative environments that my chi was f*cked up. (I need to call a medicine pigmy man or something.)
When I first moved to this fine city I was working a normal retail job at American Rag. I was management. (Drunk with power! “I said, refold that sh*t!”) The hours were somewhat flexible, so I was able to audition while I was working there. I ultimately left because the owner and policies were horrid! (The discount employees got was bull-to-the-shit!) During my time there, a friend approached me to work at a bar with him. I didn’t know many bitches, so I finally said yes. I didn’t need the money, but I went along with it for the “fun” of it. I would now have two jobs. (Bitch please! Slap me the next time I say yes to sh*t like that!) I ended up not having a day off for four months! I only got those days off because I got strep throat. Amaaaazing vacation! I wanted a warm tropical climate, but instead I got a 102-degree temp that made me moist all over. Swamp ass anyone? (I was a vision!)
So, one afternoon, my friend escorted me to a meeting with the “manager” while the bar was closed. The “interview” was about three minutes and I got the job. (He looked at me and said “nice” … that was it??) I reported to work that Friday to be “trained.” Looking back, if I had known what the reputation of the bar was, “trained” would have made me nervous. (No, I will not let you be the caboose, bitch!) I was told that I would be shown how to get ice, when to stock things, my cleaning responsibilities, where the kegs were kept and all the other sh*tty jobs the bar back gets stuck with. Grand! I was livin’ large in L.A.! The dream, if you will. (Hey Angelina! Hola J Lo!)
I arrived dressed in my cutsie Abercrombie look, and ready to work and flirt. When I approached the door, the picture my brain received from my eyes made me literally take a step back. I think things short-circuited. (Johnny 5 was f*ckin’ sick to his stomach!) I walked in and pretended not to notice my surroundings, and I had the office door in my sights. I found my “friend” in the office, and I said, “Who the f*ck am I going to meet HERE?” Let me explain something to my readers. This bar was called the Gold Coast, or if it was named correctly, it should have been, “Where-Old-goes-to-wait-for-Death’s-arrival Coast.” Oh yes, the average age was around 55. (That is being kind.) I learned that the young guys that hung out in the bar were all hookers, and saw me as a new bitch on their territory. The old men loved me, and the young ones hated me. I was sure that this princess was going to get cut.
I walked out of the office to be shown my job, and I was a professional. I was rather good at the job, so I know I can get down and dirty when it is needed. I am not someone who backs out when I have given my word. I will say that being groped, being followed into the one-person bathroom, having my neck smelled as I leaned over to grab glasses and seeing a man walk around in a diaper (not the norm, I will say that) with a “beer” in his hand all night, was NOT what I signed up for. Oh, let me say … it wasn’t beer. (Oh yeah.) I did my job, and I got out. The tips were fun and all, but it did not make up for the lack of social life and the negative vibe I experienced every weekend. All of the sudden I had no time or energy to do much else. I was work, work and more work.
The months I spent at the Gold Coast taught me what I didn’t want to do in life, and what I didn’t want to turn into. I realized that I wanted love and a partner. I wanted a career. I wanted passion in all aspects of my life. That place punched me in the face each night with sad faces and sad stories. I was friendly with the regulars and played off the pervs that like to touch. I did my job, but after the strep throat weekend, I departed. Can you blame me? There are many stories to tell, but let’s just say that they all involved inappropriate behavior on the parts of many customers. Sometimes the story involved security rescuing me and watching the bathroom door after I went in, and sometimes it involved other staff members trying to grab me in the ice room. (I am a lady!) If what I have said has not been enough to convince you of the type of place it was and why I needed to leave … did you not read “diaper” and “not beer.” I think my case rests.
Right after American Rag I had a position with a company that I loved, and it was how I met my two best friends, but the time came that I was to move on. Other things needed my attention and I needed to get busy. I found a retail job in management that I thought would allow me the time to do what I came to do. That job was working at a “design show room” that sold wallpaper and f*ckin’ “high-end” paint. I thought, “I LOVE to decorate and talk colors, so this is grand!” Oh my God! Each morning, after day two, I wanted to stab myself with the little metal thing that was used to open the paint cans. Mixing color? Dusting shelves? Standing around for hours and hours with nothing to do … I am sleeping and typing right now. It sucked the life out of me to enter that store. Each night that I went home, I felt a huge weight come off my shoulders, until I realized I would be going back in the morning. (Plopped right back down.) The sad thing was that it was not normal flexible retail hours. I was again doing nothing I came to L.A. to do. Needless to say I ran screaming one day when I quit. It took two months to hit my breaking point, and when a can hit the floor and went everywhere … I was done. F*ck yo’ paint! F*ck yo’ wallpaper b*llshit! I am f*ckin’ out of here! (Yes, I got ghetto!) It was liberating, and I didn’t care at all about being unemployed. I knew I was going to be just fine and actually better since I would not settle again for some ridiculous job.
Let me tell you that I am not a flake. I am not some person without any direction who hops from job to job. I have a college degree from the University of Washington, and I know how to do a job well. Currently, I have been at the same job for almost five years, so obviously I found something I enjoyed. I want that on the record. I just had some bad luck and hurdles to leap over to get to where I wanted to be. I didn’t quite know where that was … but whatever.
The very next job on my resume is the Pièce de Résistance. (Oh, I don’t put any of these shitty jobs on my resume for real.) After the paint store, I thought that working at hotel in the evenings would be a good idea. I would be able to audition and still have free time. I was ready and I found a gay hotel. Oh blessed be! My people were calling me home. How perfect was this? Adorable me, working the front desk … I would be the highlight of the hotel for sure. We would end up in a magazine with me posing by the bell. (Cheese!)
So, I got an interview (horray!) and I went in. All I knew was that it was a gay hotel in West Hollywood, so I made sure I looked good. I don’t go to certain types of establishments, so I had never heard of this place and its reputation. I arrived at the San Vicente Inn on a cloudy day. (You will see how this comes into play later.) I was greeted by the manager, and I was taken into one of the rooms for the interview. I did not find this weird, since the main office was open for public viewing, so it was not a place to perform an interview. (If he asked to see me nude … different story.)
The interview was normal and it went well. I was told that I could work a few different shifts through out the week, and they understood I was an actor. They told me that it was a gay hotel; they talked about the busy seasons, the rules and lots of other things. I felt ok about it, and it was a small hotel, so I thought it would be just fine. Was it my dream job, or the dream job my parents had for me with my Business Degree … NO! It was going to allow me to make money and pursue my dream. I was on Cloud 9 for about 24 hours. (Who knew that a sunny day could be my “dark” cloud?)
I arrived the first day looking as cute as possible. It was sunny that morning, so the white pants with a complimentary shirt were a smashing choice. (I was making the most out of pre-Labor Day months.) I arrived for a morning shift before “guests” were out and about on the property. (Pool, decks, cabanas and that type of sh*t.) I met the manager there for training, and let me say that this job was going to be a piece of cake. Within an hour I had it down. I shadowed him the rest of the morning. We walked the property. We spoke with guests. I got introduced to the handsy housekeeping staff. (Bitches liked long hugs “Hello.” I was waiting for the “Nice to meet you” blow jobs!) I thought that, aside from those boys, that all was going to go well. I would make it work.
An hour into my morning, guests began to gather around the pool. I watched from the desk as they came out in their towels and swimsuits. It was a warm morning and everyone, from a distance, looked to be in fine moods. All seemed normal, and then it happened. A man dropped the towel and bared all. Then, it happened again and again. It was a naked epidemic! I was not a fan of what I was seeing. I didn’t blush, but I was confused and really upset. I looked at the manager, who “forgot” to not mention the gay CLOTHING OPTIONAL hotel part. He then tells me this fact, only after seeing my shocked face. At the time, I didn’t know what to say, since it was my new job, and I had only been there an hour! Well, I know what I wanted to say.
“Sir, if I was looking at a pool full of naked Colin Farrells, Brad Pitts and Chris Evans … then I would be in whore hog heaven! What I am seeing is a bunch of flabby asses, jiggling moobs (man boobs) and liver- spotted scrotums dangling in between old man thighs as they bend over! I didn’t even know that taints could sag! This is not right! Why would someone open a hotel that encourages this? This is not God’s way! Get a priest up in this hell hole and clean it out!” But, I didn’t say that. I said, “Oh. Cool.”
Oh, and I won't even talk about the one time a HUGE (meaning size) bull-dyke came in and took it all off. Gay is gay, so who can tell her hell no!? I felt like I was at the deli counter wanting to make a french dip. (Enough said!)
Needless to say, I kept my eyes open for any new job that would be appropriate. I spent five months checking-in guests, checking-out guests, answering phones, handling nightly reports and all the other normal hotel things. I also had to deal with the handsy housekeeping boys and the creepy “General Manager.” He looked like an animated piece of leather that had not been Armoraled in years. I also put up with guests hitting on me, or calling the desk at night to see if I would “visit” them in their rooms. (Ring. Ring. Are you a top or bottom?) I put up with the drunks. I put up with men touching their wee-wees while looking at me, and the whores did not hide it at all. (Heellllooo! Meet my little sausage!) I witnessed acts that no lady should have to see and that were not allowed in public areas, so I had to tell them to take it to a room. I became the bitch mommy at the desk. I enforced rules and I kept f*ckin’ order. No one got away with sh*t on my watch! I took out my unhappiness on every horny perv I met. I had to leave when I saw what my life had become and when I was made aware of all the sketchy and dirty things that went on behind hotel room doors. (Oh hellz no!) Each day after that, I felt dirty when I left. Alas, I found a new job because I was moving on up! Things had to change! I left and I have been here, in my current position, for five years now. Is it my passion in life and has it allowed me to act … not really, but I enjoy it at this point in my life. I believe that every experience has a learning lesson, no?
This year I pursue my passion. This year I chase my dream. I said this in my first blog that it was time, and I was changing things up. I don’t want to do something that I “enjoy” because I want to do something that I “love.” In May, I am taking my first Stand-Up comedy class, and after that I go on to improv classes and other acting classes. I am also going to get out in the world and live again. (Hello Boys, I’m dating again! The line goes to the left.) I am going to spread my wings and fly. Am I meant to be a hugely successful actor? Who knows, but I am going to try. For the past five and a half years I have given up on trying, and now that doesn’t cut it for Colbs. I am not going to let five-year-old Colby’s dream of being an actor go down in flames without a fight.
I don’t want to settle. I don’t want to be scared. I want to live like we all should intend to live. We get one chance, so the over achiever in me wants to do it right! No one should want to f*ck it up. Find your passion. Find what you love. Jump off and fly, and who cares if you fall once in a while. As kids we would fall all of the time, and we said “F*ck this shit!” All right, we didn’t use that word. We said something more along the lines of, “F*ck this crap!” We got up and we learned how to do things, and we learned how to avoid making the same mistakes. So, I am not going to be afraid of falling, because I know that I am strong enough to get right back up and learn my lessons. I think we all can do that, and we should not be afraid of anything. So, get to it! You may find me on Oprah one day, or working the check out line at a Piggly Wiggly, but if I am in love with it, so be it!
Mr. Whedon, I declare! (Yes, said like Miss. Scarlett O’Hara) I did not see that coming! I am touched and inspired. I can hear him now in San Diego at Geekic Con, speaking to a bunch of comic book-holding virgins dressed like Klingons. NuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'… oh yes, that was indeed Klingon. Geeks everywhere, simmer down. Before you all bust a nut prematurely in your sensible Fruit of the Looms, all I could find was, “Where is the bathroom?” (I was looking for, “Yippie! I finally touched a boobie!”) God bless all the Comic Con, Renaissance Fair and Wizard and Warrior freaks. If we didn’t have them to compare to, I wouldn’t be quite as hot. You can’t have the light with out the dark.
If you have been reading my blog, you know that I love, no, relish in, placing judgment and categorizing folks. What I am about to reveal about myself is not something that I like to admit, and if was someone else admitting to this, I would eat them alive. In my opinion, what is behind the fabulous curtain should never be revealed, so I apologize if I ruin the glamour that is Colby. I know that it’s hard to imagine, but I, a spectacular sex god, am a closeted … supernatural-loving-geek. Anything supernatural! I eat that sh*t up! (I am coming out! Hand me my pocket protector!)
Speaking of Mr. Whedon, I love me some “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”! I said it! I can’t get enough of watching some little blonde chick kicking supernatural ass. (Very lez-liscious!) The way I am with vampires (Team Edward! He sparkles like diamonds!) and monsters, is the way 11-year-old girls scream over that whore Miley Cyrus. My shame is now public, but I will accept it and keep watching “The Vampire Diaries,” “Supernatural,” “True Blood,” “Charmed” reruns, and many more shows and movies of that genre. I am free! You might be wondering, why is this bitch talking about vampires and shit? Let me explain how this is going to come back around to a point.
I appreciate Joss Whedon because you can tell he loves what he does. He creates worlds filled with characters that you can tell he cares about. He chases his passion and is successful because of that. I love any man who puts David Boreanaz in two shows. (Someone wipe my chair. Okkaay?) I also appreciate Oprah (doesn’t everyone?) because she has built her universe (and ass) from her drive and passion (… for food). The bitch is a bit cray-cray I truly believe, but she is amazing. All that power, fame and followers will make anyone completely full of themselves. (Just one fan and I think I am that whore Miley Cyrus.) Both of these people found their passion and went for it, and that is what I want to talk about. That is what I want to do in my own life. What is my passion? (Really someone tell me!)
I don’t base “passion” only on career choices and monetary success. (Though I would roll in a pile of cash like a little piggy in mud!) I think that chasing any goal or dream with gusto is amazing. That could be anything from starting a charity to starting a family. You have to find what will make you feel energized and hold on to that. My two best friends are a lesbian couple. I love me some lesbians! (I wish I had a tool belt wearin-lesbian as a boyfriend sometimes!) My dear friends have built a beautiful family with a handsome (and very smart) little son, whom I adore. That is success and it should be cherished. Watch me get all mushy! Feelings? (It hurts.)
Again, what is my passion? Where do I find it?
Since I arrived in Los Angeles, I have gone back and forth about freeing up time to act. I want to have an income that keeps me on the comfortable side (no starving waiter for me), but with a “real” job comes the normal nice-to-five schedule. So, what is a girl to do? Night job? Day job? Waiter? Actor? More money? No money? AHHHHHH! (Slap me, I am panicking!)
I know when I came here I had passion and drive. Where did it go? Did I lose it completely? I have a hunch that while on my journey over the last six years, a few of the jobs I have held along the way have sucked the life out of me. I will never forget them, and I will never set foot in one of them again. They were so off my path, and submerged me in such negative environments that my chi was f*cked up. (I need to call a medicine pigmy man or something.)
When I first moved to this fine city I was working a normal retail job at American Rag. I was management. (Drunk with power! “I said, refold that sh*t!”) The hours were somewhat flexible, so I was able to audition while I was working there. I ultimately left because the owner and policies were horrid! (The discount employees got was bull-to-the-shit!) During my time there, a friend approached me to work at a bar with him. I didn’t know many bitches, so I finally said yes. I didn’t need the money, but I went along with it for the “fun” of it. I would now have two jobs. (Bitch please! Slap me the next time I say yes to sh*t like that!) I ended up not having a day off for four months! I only got those days off because I got strep throat. Amaaaazing vacation! I wanted a warm tropical climate, but instead I got a 102-degree temp that made me moist all over. Swamp ass anyone? (I was a vision!)
So, one afternoon, my friend escorted me to a meeting with the “manager” while the bar was closed. The “interview” was about three minutes and I got the job. (He looked at me and said “nice” … that was it??) I reported to work that Friday to be “trained.” Looking back, if I had known what the reputation of the bar was, “trained” would have made me nervous. (No, I will not let you be the caboose, bitch!) I was told that I would be shown how to get ice, when to stock things, my cleaning responsibilities, where the kegs were kept and all the other sh*tty jobs the bar back gets stuck with. Grand! I was livin’ large in L.A.! The dream, if you will. (Hey Angelina! Hola J Lo!)
I arrived dressed in my cutsie Abercrombie look, and ready to work and flirt. When I approached the door, the picture my brain received from my eyes made me literally take a step back. I think things short-circuited. (Johnny 5 was f*ckin’ sick to his stomach!) I walked in and pretended not to notice my surroundings, and I had the office door in my sights. I found my “friend” in the office, and I said, “Who the f*ck am I going to meet HERE?” Let me explain something to my readers. This bar was called the Gold Coast, or if it was named correctly, it should have been, “Where-Old-goes-to-wait-for-Death’s-arrival Coast.” Oh yes, the average age was around 55. (That is being kind.) I learned that the young guys that hung out in the bar were all hookers, and saw me as a new bitch on their territory. The old men loved me, and the young ones hated me. I was sure that this princess was going to get cut.
I walked out of the office to be shown my job, and I was a professional. I was rather good at the job, so I know I can get down and dirty when it is needed. I am not someone who backs out when I have given my word. I will say that being groped, being followed into the one-person bathroom, having my neck smelled as I leaned over to grab glasses and seeing a man walk around in a diaper (not the norm, I will say that) with a “beer” in his hand all night, was NOT what I signed up for. Oh, let me say … it wasn’t beer. (Oh yeah.) I did my job, and I got out. The tips were fun and all, but it did not make up for the lack of social life and the negative vibe I experienced every weekend. All of the sudden I had no time or energy to do much else. I was work, work and more work.
The months I spent at the Gold Coast taught me what I didn’t want to do in life, and what I didn’t want to turn into. I realized that I wanted love and a partner. I wanted a career. I wanted passion in all aspects of my life. That place punched me in the face each night with sad faces and sad stories. I was friendly with the regulars and played off the pervs that like to touch. I did my job, but after the strep throat weekend, I departed. Can you blame me? There are many stories to tell, but let’s just say that they all involved inappropriate behavior on the parts of many customers. Sometimes the story involved security rescuing me and watching the bathroom door after I went in, and sometimes it involved other staff members trying to grab me in the ice room. (I am a lady!) If what I have said has not been enough to convince you of the type of place it was and why I needed to leave … did you not read “diaper” and “not beer.” I think my case rests.
Right after American Rag I had a position with a company that I loved, and it was how I met my two best friends, but the time came that I was to move on. Other things needed my attention and I needed to get busy. I found a retail job in management that I thought would allow me the time to do what I came to do. That job was working at a “design show room” that sold wallpaper and f*ckin’ “high-end” paint. I thought, “I LOVE to decorate and talk colors, so this is grand!” Oh my God! Each morning, after day two, I wanted to stab myself with the little metal thing that was used to open the paint cans. Mixing color? Dusting shelves? Standing around for hours and hours with nothing to do … I am sleeping and typing right now. It sucked the life out of me to enter that store. Each night that I went home, I felt a huge weight come off my shoulders, until I realized I would be going back in the morning. (Plopped right back down.) The sad thing was that it was not normal flexible retail hours. I was again doing nothing I came to L.A. to do. Needless to say I ran screaming one day when I quit. It took two months to hit my breaking point, and when a can hit the floor and went everywhere … I was done. F*ck yo’ paint! F*ck yo’ wallpaper b*llshit! I am f*ckin’ out of here! (Yes, I got ghetto!) It was liberating, and I didn’t care at all about being unemployed. I knew I was going to be just fine and actually better since I would not settle again for some ridiculous job.
Let me tell you that I am not a flake. I am not some person without any direction who hops from job to job. I have a college degree from the University of Washington, and I know how to do a job well. Currently, I have been at the same job for almost five years, so obviously I found something I enjoyed. I want that on the record. I just had some bad luck and hurdles to leap over to get to where I wanted to be. I didn’t quite know where that was … but whatever.
The very next job on my resume is the Pièce de Résistance. (Oh, I don’t put any of these shitty jobs on my resume for real.) After the paint store, I thought that working at hotel in the evenings would be a good idea. I would be able to audition and still have free time. I was ready and I found a gay hotel. Oh blessed be! My people were calling me home. How perfect was this? Adorable me, working the front desk … I would be the highlight of the hotel for sure. We would end up in a magazine with me posing by the bell. (Cheese!)
So, I got an interview (horray!) and I went in. All I knew was that it was a gay hotel in West Hollywood, so I made sure I looked good. I don’t go to certain types of establishments, so I had never heard of this place and its reputation. I arrived at the San Vicente Inn on a cloudy day. (You will see how this comes into play later.) I was greeted by the manager, and I was taken into one of the rooms for the interview. I did not find this weird, since the main office was open for public viewing, so it was not a place to perform an interview. (If he asked to see me nude … different story.)
The interview was normal and it went well. I was told that I could work a few different shifts through out the week, and they understood I was an actor. They told me that it was a gay hotel; they talked about the busy seasons, the rules and lots of other things. I felt ok about it, and it was a small hotel, so I thought it would be just fine. Was it my dream job, or the dream job my parents had for me with my Business Degree … NO! It was going to allow me to make money and pursue my dream. I was on Cloud 9 for about 24 hours. (Who knew that a sunny day could be my “dark” cloud?)
I arrived the first day looking as cute as possible. It was sunny that morning, so the white pants with a complimentary shirt were a smashing choice. (I was making the most out of pre-Labor Day months.) I arrived for a morning shift before “guests” were out and about on the property. (Pool, decks, cabanas and that type of sh*t.) I met the manager there for training, and let me say that this job was going to be a piece of cake. Within an hour I had it down. I shadowed him the rest of the morning. We walked the property. We spoke with guests. I got introduced to the handsy housekeeping staff. (Bitches liked long hugs “Hello.” I was waiting for the “Nice to meet you” blow jobs!) I thought that, aside from those boys, that all was going to go well. I would make it work.
An hour into my morning, guests began to gather around the pool. I watched from the desk as they came out in their towels and swimsuits. It was a warm morning and everyone, from a distance, looked to be in fine moods. All seemed normal, and then it happened. A man dropped the towel and bared all. Then, it happened again and again. It was a naked epidemic! I was not a fan of what I was seeing. I didn’t blush, but I was confused and really upset. I looked at the manager, who “forgot” to not mention the gay CLOTHING OPTIONAL hotel part. He then tells me this fact, only after seeing my shocked face. At the time, I didn’t know what to say, since it was my new job, and I had only been there an hour! Well, I know what I wanted to say.
“Sir, if I was looking at a pool full of naked Colin Farrells, Brad Pitts and Chris Evans … then I would be in whore hog heaven! What I am seeing is a bunch of flabby asses, jiggling moobs (man boobs) and liver- spotted scrotums dangling in between old man thighs as they bend over! I didn’t even know that taints could sag! This is not right! Why would someone open a hotel that encourages this? This is not God’s way! Get a priest up in this hell hole and clean it out!” But, I didn’t say that. I said, “Oh. Cool.”
Oh, and I won't even talk about the one time a HUGE (meaning size) bull-dyke came in and took it all off. Gay is gay, so who can tell her hell no!? I felt like I was at the deli counter wanting to make a french dip. (Enough said!)
Needless to say, I kept my eyes open for any new job that would be appropriate. I spent five months checking-in guests, checking-out guests, answering phones, handling nightly reports and all the other normal hotel things. I also had to deal with the handsy housekeeping boys and the creepy “General Manager.” He looked like an animated piece of leather that had not been Armoraled in years. I also put up with guests hitting on me, or calling the desk at night to see if I would “visit” them in their rooms. (Ring. Ring. Are you a top or bottom?) I put up with the drunks. I put up with men touching their wee-wees while looking at me, and the whores did not hide it at all. (Heellllooo! Meet my little sausage!) I witnessed acts that no lady should have to see and that were not allowed in public areas, so I had to tell them to take it to a room. I became the bitch mommy at the desk. I enforced rules and I kept f*ckin’ order. No one got away with sh*t on my watch! I took out my unhappiness on every horny perv I met. I had to leave when I saw what my life had become and when I was made aware of all the sketchy and dirty things that went on behind hotel room doors. (Oh hellz no!) Each day after that, I felt dirty when I left. Alas, I found a new job because I was moving on up! Things had to change! I left and I have been here, in my current position, for five years now. Is it my passion in life and has it allowed me to act … not really, but I enjoy it at this point in my life. I believe that every experience has a learning lesson, no?
This year I pursue my passion. This year I chase my dream. I said this in my first blog that it was time, and I was changing things up. I don’t want to do something that I “enjoy” because I want to do something that I “love.” In May, I am taking my first Stand-Up comedy class, and after that I go on to improv classes and other acting classes. I am also going to get out in the world and live again. (Hello Boys, I’m dating again! The line goes to the left.) I am going to spread my wings and fly. Am I meant to be a hugely successful actor? Who knows, but I am going to try. For the past five and a half years I have given up on trying, and now that doesn’t cut it for Colbs. I am not going to let five-year-old Colby’s dream of being an actor go down in flames without a fight.
I don’t want to settle. I don’t want to be scared. I want to live like we all should intend to live. We get one chance, so the over achiever in me wants to do it right! No one should want to f*ck it up. Find your passion. Find what you love. Jump off and fly, and who cares if you fall once in a while. As kids we would fall all of the time, and we said “F*ck this shit!” All right, we didn’t use that word. We said something more along the lines of, “F*ck this crap!” We got up and we learned how to do things, and we learned how to avoid making the same mistakes. So, I am not going to be afraid of falling, because I know that I am strong enough to get right back up and learn my lessons. I think we all can do that, and we should not be afraid of anything. So, get to it! You may find me on Oprah one day, or working the check out line at a Piggly Wiggly, but if I am in love with it, so be it!
April 2, 2010
HOMELESS VAGINA & HOW YOU CAN HELP
WARNING: What you are about to read is opinionated, politically incorrect and extremely crude. I Naired My Balls For This? takes full responsibility for the content of this blog, but not for what may result from reading it. This story is based on true events and has caused sleepless nights for many gay men, and severe nausea in men and women alike. Proceed with caution! If you don’t like the blog … you can f*ck off. Have a blessed Easter.
Each morning, some of us wake up naturally fierce, flawless and fabulous, and ready to start the day. Some of us … don’t. I have been told that these second-class citizens (oops) … um… I mean, these other people, have to work at it. (And bitches, Colby has seen what you look like after “working” at it … so you may be headed for the beauty unemployment line.) I don’t know what it means to be part of this second group, but I will try and image how it feels for the sake of my blog. For my craft, if you will. I will put myself in the shoes of the common people and explain what my morning routine might look like if I had to work at it. Luckily, being ugly is not my reality, because Jesus loves me more. (Dare I say … I am one of chosen pretty people?)
My mornings regretfully begin at about 5:30 a.m. I say “about” because I have been known to snooze once, maybe three times, depending on the night before. (Don’t judge, we all snooze the damn alarm.) After shutting off my lovely-sounding alarm clock, I begin my pre-work routine. I walk and feed my dog, Boo Boo. Then I shower, moisturize, hang upside down for a few minutes, primp, style, get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before, take my vitamins, drink a big glass of water (hydrate ladies!), check my gym bag, put Boo Boo away and finally run out the door. Right before walking out the door, I stop in front of my full-length mirror, and take it all in. (Let’s just say it … it’s that good.)
While getting ready, I normally have the morning news, Today in LA, on in the background. I don’t really listen to it until they get to the weather. The reason being is that I like to know if my intended outfit is appropriate for my day at work. The selection is based on weather conditions and temperature, because a lady is always prepared. The reason I watch Today in LA’s weather, and not some other channel, is because I love my hottie, Elita Loresca. (Titties for days!)
On one particular morning I happened to overhear information about an illness being referred to as “Swine Flu.” Immediately, as I was applying my expensive Deep Tissue moisturizer to my alabaster skin, I began to conjure up a picture of the infected people with, what I imagined to be, Swine Flu. I envisioned them as being dirty grunters with rude dispositions and an intense desire to get into the garbage like little piggies. Pig people! (Oh hell no! That ain’t right.) It was too horrible to imagine! I never wanted to catch this horrific illness, and after this vivid mental imagery faded, I started to panic! I began to think that if it was, in fact, how I imagined it to be, then Venice, Santa Monica and Downtown had already been hit! I had always called these people “homeless.” (Who knew it was Swine Flu?)
Yep … I said it people. I am not a fan of the homeless, and I am not afraid to say it! Curse me all you want, but before you place judgment, let me tell you why I have a lack of affection for the “home challenged.”
First, I want to say that I’m fully aware that the homeless population is commonly plagued with mental health issues, and the rest of them just have issues. (Who’s got some Colt 45?! Anyone?!) I think that it is all very sad, and I wouldn’t wish this chosen lifestyle on anyone. (Oh … and it is a choice, like being gay is choice.) I wish we lived in a world where mental health issues and homelessness didn’t exist. I wish we lived in a world where we weren’t visually assaulted by pictures of Heidi Montag and the Octomom every second of every day. I also wish I was 6’2” and looked f*cking amazing in a wife-beater at the gym. Guess what? We don’t live in that world, so we will have to deal with reality. We will have to help the homeless and treat the mentally ill, and I will have to settle for being 5’10” and f*cking gorgeous! Reality sucks, but that’s life.
Now, with that being said, I would like to continue on and explain why my experiences with the homeless have been less than stellar. (You will forgive me, I’m sure.) My encounters have consisted of homeless people barking at me, kicking at my head, screaming at me and my dog, bumping me, asking me for money and food relentlessly, and yesterday I witnessed a homeless woman yelling at two men of the same income level. I got to see her express, with passion: “I like to f*ck! I want to f*ck! It’s my business!” Hell, that was a positive interaction! I shed tears of joy upon witnessing that at 9 a.m. I wanted to yell, “Preach Sista’! Preach!” My friends have also had horrible run-ins with the homeless. One story that stands out for me occurred when my friend was walking down the street and a homeless woman spat upon her. Spat!? That is NOT ok! If Swine Flu was what I thought it was … well … my friend would be dumpster-diving somewhere in Downtown Los Angeles with the Pig People. That would be so sad, because we obviously would not be able to remain friends. (Ladies, don’t dumpster dive.)
But the one homeless moment that stands out above all other encounters, the one story that will be forever burned into my memory occurred outside of a 7-11. (Most homeless stories start outside of a 7-11 or a similar location.)
Imagine the voice of Mrs. Sofia Petrillo as I say, “Picture it!”
Picture it! A young man (me) pulls into a 7-11 one sunny morning in Los Angeles. (All classic stories start at 7-11 or Walmart.) I was in a fine mood and looking good. I jumped out of my Jeep Wrangler (Gay!) and headed for the entrance. On my way into the store, I passed a woman standing near the entrance, which happened to be directly in front of my car. I noticed her and identified her as homeless and possibly deranged, so, of course, I kept my distance. (Fuck mace … I had Lysol Wipes and Purell ready to go!) I went into the store and got my morning Big Gulp filled with diet soda. (I don’t do coffee in the morning, but I use to get diet soda on my way to work. Call me high class!) As I strutted my hot sh*t out of 7-11 and passed the woman once again, she grunted. This grunt was directed at me. I have learned that I bring that type of reaction out in homeless people. (Just like when my Grandpa sees me and each time is compelled to ask, “When are you getting a wife?”) I faced forward and headed right for the car. I did not want to reinforce her negative behavior. If she had been Boo Boo, I would have grabbed the spray bottle. (Naughty homeless person! Naughty!) I climbed into my vehicle and looked straight ahead. As I set my gaze forward, I looked into the eyes of a woman who could have taken me apart with her rough and in- desperate-need-of-lotion hands!
She was stout and had a bit of a weight issue. (Can you say “Precious”?) She was angry-looking and the aggression just fumed off of her and her reddish complexion. (I could have suggested laser treatments, but it slipped my mind.) Her hair was unruly and a dirty brown color. She was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of men’s basketball shorts. It goes without saying, but she was in need of a shower and a washing machine, but that was not what I was worried about. You know what? Now that I am thinking about the movie “Precious,” she resembled a white and homeless version of Mo'Nique’s character from the movie. (Yummmoo!)
When our eyes met, my heart started to race. (This happened once before when I worked at American Rag and helped Simon Rex on my first day.) All I could think was “Pamplona.” (I wanted to run. Fight or flight, bitches!) I froze like Bambi in the headlights of a f*ckin’ Mack Truck, and I felt the urge to pee myself. I stopped myself from panicking and tried to focus on putting my drink in the drink holder and on getting the keys in the ignition. I was failing on all accounts. She would not stop staring me down, and this caused me to break into a cold sweat. I believe she may have huffed and puffed and stomped her feet like a bull, but scary moments play tricks on your brain.
I finally got my keys inserted where they needed to be, and I steadied my breathing. (Let me tell you … I had never had such an issue sticking it in!) My eyes never left her face. I didn’t trust this woman. In my head I imagined an old Western, and only our eyes would be shown on camera. Back and forth the camera would show each of us squinting with anger before we would draw. In the background there would be that dramatic Western music. One of us was going down, and I prayed it would not be me and my car.
Right before I got the car turned on, a crazed look came over her face. (My sudden movement might have spooked her … like cattle.) What happened next seemed to go in slow motion, but I know it only lasted about 10 seconds. I watched as she reached down and across to the left leg of her soiled gym shorts. She did this all with such speed that I couldn’t look away in time. She grabbed the leg opening (Slow motion, “NOOOOO!”) and pulled those f*ckers up and over and exposed full bush! (Bitch went commando!) I panicked! (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!) I screamed and cried! I felt like a big black lady wailing and fainting in a Southern Baptist church. (Sweet Lord, save me!) I finally got the car on, but some how I forgot how to get it into reverse. While this is happening, she is standing in daylight outside of 7-11 on Fairfax Ave. with her coochie saying, “Howdie-Do!” to all the citizens of Little Ethiopia.
I was mortified, but I finally got the car to shift as she continued to threaten me with her vagina. It was angry! What made this worse was when I shifted the car into reverse, I knocked my Big Gulp over onto the floor. (Life’s a bitch!) Now I was scared and parched! I felt like Nancy Kerrigan after the clubbinh, “Why! Whhhyyyy!”
I began to back up at top speed. I might have taken out a few small children and/or someone’s grandmother, but I had to get out of that parking lot, and I was willing to accept the casualties. As I shot backward at warp speed, I took a chance and took in the full picture below the equator, and the following description may never make you feel horny again. My love for passionate nakedness left my body and soul for a long time after that moment. Oh … it’s back now, but for a few hours that day it was not happening. (The compass would not point north, okaaay?)
All I can say about the Beaver was it most definitely had rabies and needed to be put down like Old Yeller. It needed its damn vaccinations and it needed them YESTERDAY! I thought I might even need a shot or a cream from just looking at it. (“Hello Free Clinic! It’s Colby … yeah the regular!”) Let me tell you that this wildly furry and untamed creature had never heard of a Brazilian. From what I saw in my glimpse, it had collected a great deal of lint over the years, and I think I saw a lollipop stuck to it. You know the Green Apple kind with caramel? Oh … and one word … Baguette! (Think about it.) I am sure that Beaver had done some things that no little Beaver should have to do. (Call PETA!)
As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw her slowly allow her shorts to slide back down. I may have been mistaken, but I think I saw her lips mouth, “I love you.” (You know what lips I am talking about, you nasty sluts!) On a side note, she really should read my blog and learn some dating etiquette. I know she wanted me … but damn! The Beaver stays in the cage until after dinner at least.
Let me tell you that typing this out has made me flop sweat. Wow! Now … we can all breathe. (In … and out …) This truly illustrates that I am a survivor. We can all put that behind us and move on. Never look back. I will admit that reliving the trauma was a lot for me, but I will do anything for my loyal fan. (Thanks Chuck!)
Two weeks ago, I promised that there would always be a lesson to be learned from my stories, so here it comes. Yes, even this can have a positive spin. (I know you all were wondering where this was going.) I am challenging us all to give back and help. Though the homeless folks are not my cup of tea, I do give back in my own ways. I care about the environment and work to protect it in the little ways that I can, and I also volunteer with an amazing organization that helps youth in crisis. (I am not a complete bitch.)
Think it over and see what you are passionate about. If it is the environment … go for it! Go build a house made out of used shoes or protest some toxic waste place. If you love animals … go help those little bastards! Adopt a dog or a cat, or volunteer to save a big fish. God bless those big fish! If you love those homeless … um (swallow) people … God bless you! Go hand out food, but don’t expect me to be there next to you. With my luck, I would run into the Beaver and she would want seconds on biscuits. (With a side of the Colbs.) I can’t take that chance.
In all seriousness, giving back can change your life, especially when it is something you truly care about. It gets you out of your own head and allows you to focus on something bigger than yourself. At times, I too, though I am attractive, talented (Seriously, read this blog), giving and intelligent, need to get out of my own head, and focus on something bigger than myself. It helps you be well-rounded, and it helps you to be thankful for what you have. Bitches don’t even try to tell me that you “don’t have any time to give back.” We all can find one day a month, or even a few hours of one day per month. Hell, write a check if you must!
So, I release you, my people, out into the world to help those in need, and to spread the message. Be dedicated to whatever you choose, and be open to how it can enhance your own lives. Start small, if need be, and work your way up to Colby status. You can do it!
Each morning, some of us wake up naturally fierce, flawless and fabulous, and ready to start the day. Some of us … don’t. I have been told that these second-class citizens (oops) … um… I mean, these other people, have to work at it. (And bitches, Colby has seen what you look like after “working” at it … so you may be headed for the beauty unemployment line.) I don’t know what it means to be part of this second group, but I will try and image how it feels for the sake of my blog. For my craft, if you will. I will put myself in the shoes of the common people and explain what my morning routine might look like if I had to work at it. Luckily, being ugly is not my reality, because Jesus loves me more. (Dare I say … I am one of chosen pretty people?)
My mornings regretfully begin at about 5:30 a.m. I say “about” because I have been known to snooze once, maybe three times, depending on the night before. (Don’t judge, we all snooze the damn alarm.) After shutting off my lovely-sounding alarm clock, I begin my pre-work routine. I walk and feed my dog, Boo Boo. Then I shower, moisturize, hang upside down for a few minutes, primp, style, get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before, take my vitamins, drink a big glass of water (hydrate ladies!), check my gym bag, put Boo Boo away and finally run out the door. Right before walking out the door, I stop in front of my full-length mirror, and take it all in. (Let’s just say it … it’s that good.)
While getting ready, I normally have the morning news, Today in LA, on in the background. I don’t really listen to it until they get to the weather. The reason being is that I like to know if my intended outfit is appropriate for my day at work. The selection is based on weather conditions and temperature, because a lady is always prepared. The reason I watch Today in LA’s weather, and not some other channel, is because I love my hottie, Elita Loresca. (Titties for days!)
On one particular morning I happened to overhear information about an illness being referred to as “Swine Flu.” Immediately, as I was applying my expensive Deep Tissue moisturizer to my alabaster skin, I began to conjure up a picture of the infected people with, what I imagined to be, Swine Flu. I envisioned them as being dirty grunters with rude dispositions and an intense desire to get into the garbage like little piggies. Pig people! (Oh hell no! That ain’t right.) It was too horrible to imagine! I never wanted to catch this horrific illness, and after this vivid mental imagery faded, I started to panic! I began to think that if it was, in fact, how I imagined it to be, then Venice, Santa Monica and Downtown had already been hit! I had always called these people “homeless.” (Who knew it was Swine Flu?)
Yep … I said it people. I am not a fan of the homeless, and I am not afraid to say it! Curse me all you want, but before you place judgment, let me tell you why I have a lack of affection for the “home challenged.”
First, I want to say that I’m fully aware that the homeless population is commonly plagued with mental health issues, and the rest of them just have issues. (Who’s got some Colt 45?! Anyone?!) I think that it is all very sad, and I wouldn’t wish this chosen lifestyle on anyone. (Oh … and it is a choice, like being gay is choice.) I wish we lived in a world where mental health issues and homelessness didn’t exist. I wish we lived in a world where we weren’t visually assaulted by pictures of Heidi Montag and the Octomom every second of every day. I also wish I was 6’2” and looked f*cking amazing in a wife-beater at the gym. Guess what? We don’t live in that world, so we will have to deal with reality. We will have to help the homeless and treat the mentally ill, and I will have to settle for being 5’10” and f*cking gorgeous! Reality sucks, but that’s life.
Now, with that being said, I would like to continue on and explain why my experiences with the homeless have been less than stellar. (You will forgive me, I’m sure.) My encounters have consisted of homeless people barking at me, kicking at my head, screaming at me and my dog, bumping me, asking me for money and food relentlessly, and yesterday I witnessed a homeless woman yelling at two men of the same income level. I got to see her express, with passion: “I like to f*ck! I want to f*ck! It’s my business!” Hell, that was a positive interaction! I shed tears of joy upon witnessing that at 9 a.m. I wanted to yell, “Preach Sista’! Preach!” My friends have also had horrible run-ins with the homeless. One story that stands out for me occurred when my friend was walking down the street and a homeless woman spat upon her. Spat!? That is NOT ok! If Swine Flu was what I thought it was … well … my friend would be dumpster-diving somewhere in Downtown Los Angeles with the Pig People. That would be so sad, because we obviously would not be able to remain friends. (Ladies, don’t dumpster dive.)
But the one homeless moment that stands out above all other encounters, the one story that will be forever burned into my memory occurred outside of a 7-11. (Most homeless stories start outside of a 7-11 or a similar location.)
Imagine the voice of Mrs. Sofia Petrillo as I say, “Picture it!”
Picture it! A young man (me) pulls into a 7-11 one sunny morning in Los Angeles. (All classic stories start at 7-11 or Walmart.) I was in a fine mood and looking good. I jumped out of my Jeep Wrangler (Gay!) and headed for the entrance. On my way into the store, I passed a woman standing near the entrance, which happened to be directly in front of my car. I noticed her and identified her as homeless and possibly deranged, so, of course, I kept my distance. (Fuck mace … I had Lysol Wipes and Purell ready to go!) I went into the store and got my morning Big Gulp filled with diet soda. (I don’t do coffee in the morning, but I use to get diet soda on my way to work. Call me high class!) As I strutted my hot sh*t out of 7-11 and passed the woman once again, she grunted. This grunt was directed at me. I have learned that I bring that type of reaction out in homeless people. (Just like when my Grandpa sees me and each time is compelled to ask, “When are you getting a wife?”) I faced forward and headed right for the car. I did not want to reinforce her negative behavior. If she had been Boo Boo, I would have grabbed the spray bottle. (Naughty homeless person! Naughty!) I climbed into my vehicle and looked straight ahead. As I set my gaze forward, I looked into the eyes of a woman who could have taken me apart with her rough and in- desperate-need-of-lotion hands!
She was stout and had a bit of a weight issue. (Can you say “Precious”?) She was angry-looking and the aggression just fumed off of her and her reddish complexion. (I could have suggested laser treatments, but it slipped my mind.) Her hair was unruly and a dirty brown color. She was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of men’s basketball shorts. It goes without saying, but she was in need of a shower and a washing machine, but that was not what I was worried about. You know what? Now that I am thinking about the movie “Precious,” she resembled a white and homeless version of Mo'Nique’s character from the movie. (Yummmoo!)
When our eyes met, my heart started to race. (This happened once before when I worked at American Rag and helped Simon Rex on my first day.) All I could think was “Pamplona.” (I wanted to run. Fight or flight, bitches!) I froze like Bambi in the headlights of a f*ckin’ Mack Truck, and I felt the urge to pee myself. I stopped myself from panicking and tried to focus on putting my drink in the drink holder and on getting the keys in the ignition. I was failing on all accounts. She would not stop staring me down, and this caused me to break into a cold sweat. I believe she may have huffed and puffed and stomped her feet like a bull, but scary moments play tricks on your brain.
I finally got my keys inserted where they needed to be, and I steadied my breathing. (Let me tell you … I had never had such an issue sticking it in!) My eyes never left her face. I didn’t trust this woman. In my head I imagined an old Western, and only our eyes would be shown on camera. Back and forth the camera would show each of us squinting with anger before we would draw. In the background there would be that dramatic Western music. One of us was going down, and I prayed it would not be me and my car.
Right before I got the car turned on, a crazed look came over her face. (My sudden movement might have spooked her … like cattle.) What happened next seemed to go in slow motion, but I know it only lasted about 10 seconds. I watched as she reached down and across to the left leg of her soiled gym shorts. She did this all with such speed that I couldn’t look away in time. She grabbed the leg opening (Slow motion, “NOOOOO!”) and pulled those f*ckers up and over and exposed full bush! (Bitch went commando!) I panicked! (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!) I screamed and cried! I felt like a big black lady wailing and fainting in a Southern Baptist church. (Sweet Lord, save me!) I finally got the car on, but some how I forgot how to get it into reverse. While this is happening, she is standing in daylight outside of 7-11 on Fairfax Ave. with her coochie saying, “Howdie-Do!” to all the citizens of Little Ethiopia.
I was mortified, but I finally got the car to shift as she continued to threaten me with her vagina. It was angry! What made this worse was when I shifted the car into reverse, I knocked my Big Gulp over onto the floor. (Life’s a bitch!) Now I was scared and parched! I felt like Nancy Kerrigan after the clubbinh, “Why! Whhhyyyy!”
I began to back up at top speed. I might have taken out a few small children and/or someone’s grandmother, but I had to get out of that parking lot, and I was willing to accept the casualties. As I shot backward at warp speed, I took a chance and took in the full picture below the equator, and the following description may never make you feel horny again. My love for passionate nakedness left my body and soul for a long time after that moment. Oh … it’s back now, but for a few hours that day it was not happening. (The compass would not point north, okaaay?)
All I can say about the Beaver was it most definitely had rabies and needed to be put down like Old Yeller. It needed its damn vaccinations and it needed them YESTERDAY! I thought I might even need a shot or a cream from just looking at it. (“Hello Free Clinic! It’s Colby … yeah the regular!”) Let me tell you that this wildly furry and untamed creature had never heard of a Brazilian. From what I saw in my glimpse, it had collected a great deal of lint over the years, and I think I saw a lollipop stuck to it. You know the Green Apple kind with caramel? Oh … and one word … Baguette! (Think about it.) I am sure that Beaver had done some things that no little Beaver should have to do. (Call PETA!)
As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw her slowly allow her shorts to slide back down. I may have been mistaken, but I think I saw her lips mouth, “I love you.” (You know what lips I am talking about, you nasty sluts!) On a side note, she really should read my blog and learn some dating etiquette. I know she wanted me … but damn! The Beaver stays in the cage until after dinner at least.
Let me tell you that typing this out has made me flop sweat. Wow! Now … we can all breathe. (In … and out …) This truly illustrates that I am a survivor. We can all put that behind us and move on. Never look back. I will admit that reliving the trauma was a lot for me, but I will do anything for my loyal fan. (Thanks Chuck!)
Two weeks ago, I promised that there would always be a lesson to be learned from my stories, so here it comes. Yes, even this can have a positive spin. (I know you all were wondering where this was going.) I am challenging us all to give back and help. Though the homeless folks are not my cup of tea, I do give back in my own ways. I care about the environment and work to protect it in the little ways that I can, and I also volunteer with an amazing organization that helps youth in crisis. (I am not a complete bitch.)
Think it over and see what you are passionate about. If it is the environment … go for it! Go build a house made out of used shoes or protest some toxic waste place. If you love animals … go help those little bastards! Adopt a dog or a cat, or volunteer to save a big fish. God bless those big fish! If you love those homeless … um (swallow) people … God bless you! Go hand out food, but don’t expect me to be there next to you. With my luck, I would run into the Beaver and she would want seconds on biscuits. (With a side of the Colbs.) I can’t take that chance.
In all seriousness, giving back can change your life, especially when it is something you truly care about. It gets you out of your own head and allows you to focus on something bigger than yourself. At times, I too, though I am attractive, talented (Seriously, read this blog), giving and intelligent, need to get out of my own head, and focus on something bigger than myself. It helps you be well-rounded, and it helps you to be thankful for what you have. Bitches don’t even try to tell me that you “don’t have any time to give back.” We all can find one day a month, or even a few hours of one day per month. Hell, write a check if you must!
So, I release you, my people, out into the world to help those in need, and to spread the message. Be dedicated to whatever you choose, and be open to how it can enhance your own lives. Start small, if need be, and work your way up to Colby status. You can do it!