I want to start this out by saying that I thought until Saturday the things I'm about to tell you are such common sense that even 11 year old Amish children know not to do them on dates. And yet. Never underestimate how 1 amazingly clueless people can be 2 those people will also find me. Not necessarily find me, but I'm more forgiving than most because I know how much more competitive it is to date in NYC is especially once you get to a certain age. Dating when I was 26 was not a problem.

I'm 37. (I want to say "No, I'm not." But yes, yes I am. I may not LOOK 37 but I am in reality 37 years old.)

I digress.

So, this person chatting me up by email seemed like a decent person and so we moved to text messaging. And here began what should have been warning signs. The guy was CONSTANTLY texting me. This steady stream of really eager to please and amuse texts that did nothing but make me think 1 this dude is desperate and 2 he doesn't date much.

What should have been the kiss of death is when he asked me by text if any of the photos on my profile were doctored. I replied that they weren't because...well they aren't. His response? "Oh because, and I'm sure you know this, you have really nice knockers."

Now I know from the word choice this was an attempt at a humorous compliment. It made me want to punch him in the cock. One thing I truly hate is men asking or complimenting me on my breasts early on. Where you all raised in a Hooters? Seriously. I know I have the body of a pin-up model. And yes, there are times it's appropriate to compliment me. First meeting? No. Before the first meeting? No. Sure you compliment my appearance, but don't go into sexyland straight away.

The reason why this comment didn't get him fired is he offered to take me to dinner at Po, a Mario Batali restaurant in the Village. For some choice vittles, I'm willing to forgive a crass statement. Still the text messages, which seemed increasingly shrill and desperate, worried me.

When I met him on the date it was clear he didn't really understand where to take a date. We met at a kind of Irishy sports place downtown to "Get to know each other." He, almost immediately, unasked told me intimate details about his relationship with his ex-girlfriend including such stellar details as "She was more into me" and "she wasn't always clean in certain places, which wasn't pleasant."

YES HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT.

Let me take a moment to address the ex-girlfriend issue. If you're like me and dated roughly half the male population of NYC, it's hard not to mention ex-boyfriends. And yet I don't. The only time I mention an ex-boyfriend on a first date is if specifically asked a question like "Why did your ex dump you?" (Which you shouldn't ask but people do.) But even if an ex-boyfriend story slips, there are two things you don't do 1. talk negatively about your ex 2. talk about him or her intimately. First off you don't talk about their sex life or hygiene or whatever because ewwww I don't know this person and I don't need to know that. Second, being intimate with someone makes one vulnerable. Even if there is no love. Even if it's a friends with benefits deal. There's still a vulnerability there that deserves to be respected. No woman, or hopefully man, wants to be with someone who would so cavalierly mock a lover particularly a long term one. Not to mention,what the hell does that say about your self-esteem?

I told him, point blank, that he should never talk about me that way. He didn't seem upset by the comment, but I don't know if he heard me either. I don't think he quite got it.

For dinner, he chose the exceptionally small, crowded, and loud Po, which had wonderful food, but was not a good getting to know you place. Another indication of his low social IQ, but even more worrying was his statement half way through the meal "Either you're hanging on my every word or you're drugged." This was the height of the dinner crush at Po and I just didn't feel like yelling casual conversation. At that point I knitted my eyebrows and explained that if I tried to casually converse in that din I wouldn't have a voice. A few minutes later he made the same admission it was too loud. OK genius if it was too loud, then why the accusation? When I tried to explain I had an analytical mind that looks for patterns he responded "Oh you mean like OCD." NO NOT LIKE OCD AT ALL. OCD is about trying to impose order on a disordered universe. Being analytical is looking for patterns that actually exist and figuring out what they mean. In other words, it's called BEING SMART ASSHAT.

He also shared with me stories about two previous dates that week. The first one, a week back, he took to Red Lobster. After which, they went back to his car, she took his cock out, but then refused to go with him to a hotel.

YES HE TOLD ME THIS.

The second date, the night before, he took to Gray's Papaya because "That's where she wanted to go."

Whether your date takes your cock or not, recent dates are also not appropriate topic for first dates. But yeah, telling me about your post Red Lobster crotch fest is definitely right.fucking.out.

At this point, I.was.done. After dinner, we walked to yet another crowded cheap dessert place. We sat outside and by this time I was done with it.He made yet another negative comment and I replied " You do really like to pathologize all my responses to you." At which point, I brought up that he had called me mentally ill and accused me of drug use. I totally flattened my affect. My face and voice gave no indication of any emotion, either pleased or pained. Suddenly he felt "Uncomfortable." I told him it was interesting that someone who was so comfortable being negative about others had such a low discomfort threshold himself. After all, he spent most of the night talking, and what little he said to me was not complimentary (although I don't think he thought of it as insulting). In fact, when he tried to get me to talk about myself he could not come up with ONE QUESTION to ask me. NOT ONE. He basically just said "Tell me about yourself." I asked him what he wanted to know and he simply repeated the question. He actually couldn't come up with a question because the only thing I'd really said about myself was to talk about my job early in one. His response? "You seem really passionate about that. Let's change the subject."

I'M SORRY WHAT?

Showing interest in things IS GOOD. If someone is passionate about their job and you don't feel anything say something neutral like "I wish I enjoyed my job that much" or "It must be wonderful to be that motivated/involved in your career." It's not trying to solve cold fusion people. It's basic manners. Basic.

Finally, he couldn't handle being uncomfortable and wanted to end the date without waiting for us to order dessert at which point I got up. He went to walk to me a cab at which point I told him in no uncertain terms I did not WANT him too. I stalked off to a cab.

Later that night I got this text message, "I would not feel right if I went to bed tonight without saying this; I had a very nice time with you! I just think that your intellect maybe just go [sic] the better of me! It was really awkward for me! I really cannot let you think I'm a total creep! I did not want you to get up and walk away unescorted! I am sorry! Good night, and I hope you find a more compatible person to be with!" Now first of all no one, not even 14 year old girls who are still upset with Kristen Stewart on behalf of Robert Pattinson use that many exclamation points in a single text. I explained to him that I didn't think he was a creep, just someone with very low social IQ who has no idea what he sounds like to the outside world. I further informed him that I DID NOT WANT TO BE ESCORTED, which I made clear. No apologies for actually respecting my wishes, but lastly I didn't accept his apology because I believe it was motivated by his discomfort and not any genuine concern with my upset as his apology in no way addressed the topics it should have. That, of course, was confirmed by the response to text. Finally, I was reduced to texting him this. "Stop texting me. Just stop."

The response? "Out!"

All I can say is I've never been out with a 14 year old girl before, but I bet they are less annoying and fragile than that dude.

Labels: dating, idiocy, idiots, online dating

Those faithful followers of the blog know I protect the identities of those I write about as much as possible. After all, I write under a nom de plume myself so I try to protect my subjects. (Granted my alter ego now has far more online presence than my real one.) So while crazy asshats I've dated by the bushel, I've done my best not to out them here.

But there comes a time when assholery must be exposed and I've done that too. There's a certain time when it becomes a public service and I consider my job to protect the general population from men that even a hardened professional like myself finds so abhorrent I've called in a favor or two ensure they go to the special hell saved for child molesters. Some of my best blogs have been when I got all het up with the passion of Nemesis and let some utter deserving rat fucker have the full force of my divine wrath."Somebody get me a gallon of kerosene and a lighter because I'm gonna burn this bridge." Afterward I'm gonna sow the ashes with salt so for years after people will see the barren earth and know the legend of David-he who stooped to conquer.

Tonight Dave, you get to join those few, those pathetic few, to whom I have given a name on this blog. But even amongst them you are unique.You went farther than all of them. I loved you. I did. And because of that I put up with so much horseshit, you showing up at my apartment so shitfaced you didn't know what day it was, abandoning me in the middle of the night in PA, calling me one day to say you want to take me to Paris and two days later to tell me you don't think we can be friends. And I put up with it for 2 single reasons. One despite all of that, I loved you because underneath all the bullshit, so I thought, was a truly precious individual struggling to get out. And two you were the only person in my entire life who saw beauty in my disability and that alone is worth a small truckload of horseshit.

So when you read this please understand what you have done. Not only do I no longer believe there is anything worthwhile about you, I think you're the monster. Because if you ever cared for me. If you ever loved me. The idea of what you did would make you never stop throwing up and I should know. Because even AFTER you've done this, I've still pretty much refrained from doing anything terrible to you...and I totally, and easily, could.

Let me begin by saying this: I understand if men...or women don't want to hear from me again. A month ago a guy told me that after date three. And know what? Totally fine with that. The guy I dated for three years and dumped me by text message? Cut him off. When he came sniffing around 6 weeks later, I told him to fuck off.  Haven't contacted him since.

But here's the thing don't then text that you're trying to call me and when I call back have a third party intercept the call and say "He doesn't want to talk to you anymore." What kind of fucked up fourth grade bullshit is that? I mean the mind fucking boggles. Why not just text me to leave you alone? AFTER ALL I BLOCKED YOUR PHONE NUMBER SO YOU COULDN'T CALL ME. Seriously?  This was your... killer move after I've been dealing with your drunken shenanigans for months? This is what I get for when you showed up at my place unannounced so shit faced you didn't know what day it was or what time and I still took care of you. While you lay in my bed and I sat outside reading so you could rest and then when I talked to you when you said you wanted to die. The price of my friendship, the price of that evening out of which I got nothing including babysitting money, is so cheap to you you decide to stoop where no man before sought to bend. Not to mention it has cost me the belief than anyone can find beauty in my disability.

Let me remind you of something David. No man has ever destroyed me. Many have tried. All have failed. But I, in my time, have a few scalps to my name. When Eric left, I became cruel and I openly admit I destroyed some people just because I could. Since then I vowed to be a kinder gentler sex monster. But you didn't just awaken the beast. You pissed in its face. There's only so much anyone can take.

And I do have a mean streak. And when I warn you again and again don't fuck with the monster. Then don't fuck with it. Because I save everything. Every raunchy email. Every secret text. I have pages and pages of journal entries, plane tickets, presents, trinkets, hell friends who know who you are. And here's why you don't want to fuck with me. You can't do anything. Not one damn thing to stop me partially because I have both evidence and the first amendment on my side (yes I actually researched this when I started bunniblog so I'm solid on my first amendment law). But also because I have this tiny pathetic life already so there's nothing you CAN take from me.

You, on the other hand, have lots of fun things to gamble and loose.

A friend of mine last night asked me why not just let it go? Why not let it go?! A valid question. After all, that's precisely what I've done so many times before with Mr. 3 Years Text Message Break Up. I just walked away. I spend my entire life turning the other cheek. When people stare at me in hatred because of what I look like, when men openly LAUGH at me on the street on my way to work, students openly betting on how tall I am, I turn the other cheek. It's a choice. But do not get me wrong, it hurts. Not just casual disdain, but the lack of empathy. I can feel your pain, but you refuse to feel mine. A reminder of just how alone, how different I am from all of you. And what's worse is you have so much you take for granted. The ability to run upstairs, feel the sand beneath your feet, not have to worry about what people think of the scars and the deformity not to mention the severely shortened life span. How many things have I lost because I lost the neuroblastoma lottery?And I wouldn't mind losing it if you all appreciated what you have. But you don't even think about it and when you see me instead of feeling grateful for what you have, you revile me for what I can't.

And every day I turn the fucking other cheek. It is exhausting and depressing and aggravating, but I do it.

But there comes a time when someone does something so spectacularly cruel, something that I absolutely can not countenance. For someone so goddamned lucky to openly, publicly, spit in the face of someone that only hours ago he claimed to care? No. Actions have consequences. And if I have to live with this chest sucking pain that I don't deserve you can goddamn well bet I'm going to take someone deserving down with me.

For now, I've only identified the person by first name. But I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve and Dave would do well to remember that when I started this blog it was to warn the world about another grade A rat fucker. It seems fate has played a hand with public enemy number one and his life, currently, is precisely what he feared the most it would be. So I'm content to just giggle when I see his completely bald head on fb (he's 7 years younger than me but MAN he did not age well). But long ago, this blog was a top search result for his name. You wanna play rough? Just remember it's hard to win against someone with nothing to lose.

And as for the rest of you, a question. What would you do? If someone you loved and forgave time and again did something so vile you not only can't forgive, you can barely begin to contemplate, what would you do? Turn the other cheek? Seek vengeance? Have you before? I'm curious.(Oh on a side note. My halo scan comments expired so you have to use blogger comments. For some reason the comment box ONLY appears when you click on the particular post so scroll down to the bottom, hey look, you're here already! Click on the time stamp. Two comment boxes will appear. Use the blogger one. Anyone can comment, even anonymously same as before. Enjoy. And anyone who wants to help me with formatting shit in regards to comments, please email me and misslapin@gmail.com . Thanks.)

Labels: asshat, boyfriend troubles, boys, break up, breaking up, david, ex boyfriend nightmare, ex-boyfriend, heartbreak loss, idiocy, loneliness

Several years ago, I was friends with an older man. I referred to him here as Notorious B.I.G. He was actually the father of one of my favorite bartenders. Anyway, one night at the bar I met Notorious B.I.G., and we got to talking about Richard the Third. He was apparently so impressed that he talked about me to his son often.

To make a long story short, B.I.G. and I became friends. We would often have dinner together at the place on the corner and discuss politics, history, the media, and other ideas. It was invigorating to actually be able to talk to someone who could thoughtfully discuss these issues and over time I became attracted to him. It was truly an intellectual attraction. I enjoyed being able to talk to him and be with him. He made me feel less alone.

Anyway, we were friends for about 2 years. During part of this time, I was seeing someone. Still, I was fairly clear about my attraction to B.I.G. My friend, while he acknowledged being attracted, said there was no point because 1 he was too old for me and 2 he didn't have time for a girlfriend. The idiot who I was dating broke up with me right before thanksgiving meaning that I had to run the gauntlet holidays to commit suicide by single. I was truly heartbroken and B.I.G. knew that I was becoming very depressed.

Now, admittedly here's where things get bad. Close to my birthday, B.I.G. called me to have dinner with him. I was having drinks with a female friend when he called. I explained I was with a friend, and he said to bring her along.

So what happened next? B.I.G. proceeded to hit on her in front of me by talking to her about how concerned he was about my mental wellbeing as if I wasn't there. So there I am at a table-and he's using my depression to hit on her while acting in a way that would only aggravate my feelings of worthlessness. I decided to go home. I mean, I could at least protect my own feelings, as he didn't seem to have any interest in doing so.

The next day my female friend told me that she agreed to go dinner with him. They became a serious item, and I stopped speaking to both of them. I stopped speaking to him because I didn't want to be friends with a guy who cared so little about protecting my feelings. I communicated with her in a distant way for awhile until it became clear that I couldn't be friends with her if I wasn't going to be friends with him.

Now ALL of this happened 2 years ago. I see them, as all of us live in the same hood, but I've never spoken or even waved at them in all that time. As I said, B.I.G. and I used to hang at the same resto all the time. There were other regulars, including one with whom I still see there and sometimes chat with. He knows all the parties involved, but not what happened really.

Last night, the reg and I happen to being chatting and he tells me that he has spoken to BIG about me. BIG claims he wants to be friends with me again. I keep saying that I'm not interested, but the reg, not knowing the whole story, keeps pushing the issue. Apparently, BIG deeply misses me.

Who wouldn't?

In college, they called me the boomerang. Even when men left, they would come back-somewhere between 3 days and 2 years later. I'm a rare person. Sometimes, it takes a while for a man to figure that out, but he eventually does and comes back.

Me? I'm rarely, if ever, interested.

So this little episode has the effect of opening up an old wound just to pour salt on it.

I'm still so pissed about it I decided to write the following letter to him as I no longer have any of his contact info.

BIG-

Last night ***, one of the regulars from ********, told me that you had brought up my name and said you would like to be friends with me again. Now this disturbs me for a few reasons. One, if you would like to be friends with me, you should bring it up with directly me and not involve other people. I don't like having to defend my choices esp. to those not in the know about what happened. I'm sending this as a letter because I value privacy and don't wish to speak through third parties.

Two, I think I've made my stance perfectly clear. I was very hurt by your behavior several years ago and don't wish to be friends with someone who cares so little about protecting my feelings. Nothing has occurred to change my mind about the validity of that decision.

Finally, I long ago made my peace with what happened. I don't want to revisit it, and this whole episode has been akin to opening an old wound just to pour salt on it.

If you ever valued my friendship, leave me alone and don't talk about me with ***.

Bunni


So what do you think blogosphere?

Labels: former friends, idiocy

While sitting outside waiting for the Doberman to fetch me coffee, Abe Vigoda came shuffling up the sidewalk. I had watched Barney Miller with my Dad when I was young and was scheduled to see his brother AKA Uncle Schmendrick later in the day about the trust my father set up before he died. Seeing Vigoda, who I had seen on Broadway years ago in Arsenic and Old Place (he played Johnny-a serial killer), I thought it must be a good omen for the rest of the day.

I had scheduled lunch at a nice steak restaurant right by Penn Station in order to make things easier for my uncle. Now Uncle Schmendrick has raised literally thousands of dollars for children in Darfur. He has donated, by now, years of his life treating patients all over the world and still, well in his seventies, practices pediatrics. And so I feel incredibly guilty for the story I am about to relate to you, but I will. It simply proves that Michel de Montaigne was correct when he declared that human beings are not consistent. A brave man may commit acts of great cowardice. A benevolent may can commit acts of cruelty. And a man who is willing to help children in other countries may drive me to homicide out of a feud as old as I am.

My father hated his family. I grew up with barely any contact with my paternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather died so young I actually forgot his name. (I thought it was Saul, but it was actually Samuel.) As for my uncle and his children, I met them maybe once that I remember. And so for most of my childhood, it was as if these people simply didn't exist. My mother was more than happy about that situation. My father's family, despite her conversion, was less than thrilled with her, and she was perfectly happy to let them and their dim opinions of her to be kept at a distance. Furthermore there was hostility between my uncle and my mother which stemmed from a single incident. When I was in the hospital with cancer, my uncle in a typical doctorish move tried to override my mother's decision to hold off on a very dangerous treatment. Convinced, as a pediatrician, that he knew better, he brushed her aside. Mere Lapin threw such a fit that until I was discharged every decision had to be signed off by her, even if my father had already approved it. My mother never forgave Uncle Schmendrick for this behavior.

After my parents divorce, my father suddenly immersed himself in his family. He dragged me on visits to see my now adult cousins, but I wasn't interested in these strangers. I was in high school, and I had other things to worry about other than these random idiots from NJ with whom I shared my blood and that was all. By then my father was well on his way to being institutionalized and spending time with him was unpleasant and strained. To add these strange people into the equation only made me more distant. If it wasn't for the trust set up upon my father's death, I don't think I would have ever contacted them after my father's death.

Before my father's death he set up a trust of which I was the beneficiary and my uncle the executor. My mother pondered the decision upon my father's death. Marv was crazy, but he was never ever stupid. The move had to have some purpose. On the other hand, I was only 19 at the time. My father hated my mother and he needed someone to be executor. Who else was there other than his brother? The brother who blamed my mother for the death of my father. As if she hadn't tried to save him. As if anyone could. As if my father wasn't the one to take himself off the heart donor's list. As if. As if. As if.

And yet, I know from my experience with my father that people believe what they want to believe. And so Uncle Schmendrick continued to think of my mother as the goyische pariah who killed Marv. And she continued to think of him as the presumptuous prick who tried to kill her child. And I continued to wish that my adoption papers would suddenly surface.

Uncle Schmendrick arrived at the lovely steak restaurant in an old t-shirt and track pants that highlighted his old wiry Jew physique. I suddenly knew, for the first time, what it was to be stared at for being "Those Jews." We walked amongst tables of quiet business meetings whose occupants stared and wondered. Uncle Schmendrick first delivered a dissertation on his, indeed, very noble charity work. To be completely honest, he has risked his life many times over to help children. He deserves praise for that. He then continued on about my cousins, two married with children. One even had a child named after my father. My father. She has a child named after my father. I have a killer rabbit. (The child's name, incidentally is Maya, which if memory serves means illusion. Very fitting.)

I ordered a second glass of wine.

Finally the discussion about the trust surfaced. He revealed a complete lack of real knowledge about how the trust worked. I explained how the trust was set up, how it worked. This man, who claimed to be watching over the trust closely, knew nothing of what I spoke. He didn't know what would happen to the trust if I died. And this man, who years ago asked to be taken off as executor of the trust, whose request I now said I would grant, then decided, based on an old feud, to question me. He didn't want to be executor, but he didn't want an independent executor. He wanted things to change, but he had in his mind the way that he wanted them to change"gradually." When I told him with how the trust was set up it wasn't possible, he suddenly shifted gears. He was worried that I would be taken advantage of, the money would vanish, even though of course HE didn't want it. His children were well off, he didn't want the money. He kept emphasizing even within families how these things happen.

These things, of course, being that my mother would embezzle the money.

After repeating himself several times that he was worried about hanky panky, he said he would call the lawyer about what I told him. The lawyer who wouldn't even speak to me until I spoke with Uncle Schmendrick. The lawyer Uncle Schmendrick insisted I keep on. Of course, old boys chatting with other old boys about what this little girl couldn't possibly understand.

And suddenly I knew why Marv had made Uncle Schmendrick executor of his trust. To drive me crazy....from long distance. And 14 years after his death, his brilliant plan was finally working.

But I didn't survive all those years with Whose Who in Mental Illness just let some philanthropic schmendrick keep me from what is rightfully mine. And the truth is his children will never get that money, I'll spend every dime of it first. I'll buy an apartment in Paris. I'll adopt a little Chinese baby (somebody call Angelina's adoption lawyer!).

So I was polite. I paid for lunch. Again people stared as we walked out. This angular stereotypical whiny older Jew being followed by the littlest ball of hate in the world. We said good bye outside and I commenced to call my mother and reassure her that Uncle Schmendrick was still a spectacular asshat and I had more asshatery from him to look forward too. I have no intention of ever seeing him again.

And now I lie in wait for the the battle to begin.

Labels: death, family, father, idiocy, money

I've always gotten along better with boys. I was talking to my mother this weekend and she was recalling when I was a little girl. She got a phone call from Nathan's mother (my best friend's mother) explaining, "I told him that she simply can't be the ONLY girl he invites to his birthday party, but he won't listen." I said I didn't mind. And sure enough when my mother came to pick me up, there were the boys wrestling in the dirt, and I was on the swing in my pink dress just smiling away and watching.

Similarly, I invited boys to my birthday party even though several girls wouldn't come if there were boys. I told him my mother, " I don't care if they won't come. It's my party and I want Nathan and Jeff to come."

Later Nathan and Jeff would turn against me. In middle school, when I became a social pariah because of my disability. They spread rumors about me, namely that I had skinny dipped with them and tried to seduce them sexually.

Riiiiiiiight.

At about the time that it became dangerous for someone to even be seen talking to me if he/she wished to remain popular or even well liked, rumors began to circulate that I was a slut. In fact, when I was in a wheelchair for two months recovering from major surgery with a two inch metal rod sticking out of my left foot, the rumor going around was that I had had an abortion and the cast on my leg was put there by my father to "cover."

No one tried to explain the two inch metal rod sticking out of my foot.

So I am used to being the only girl in the company of men and being called a slut.

Last Friday I was sitting outside of the new Lion's Den surrounded by my male friends. I like being the Queen Bee. Ariel arrived and kissed my hand. Rasputin arrived and began to argue about the proper way of kissing a woman's hand. Thus I sat there, two men kissing my hand, each debating with the other about technique.

I imagine French court might have been like that.

As I sat there, one of the female regulars walked by and saw me holding court. "What do you call a male harem?" she asked.

"A Hissem," I responded without thinking. Thus I was hangin' with the hissem.

The thing about the hissem is that although I am surrounded by men, I would never date or sleep with any of them.

Later that night, a regular at the local watering hole accused me of being a slut. "I see you in here talking to a different guy each time. What am I supposed to think?"

Do you see why I sometimes deeply hate men?

It's not as if I was dating this guy or had any personal connection to him, yet I was expected to explain myself , and my predilection for male company, to him. Uh let me call my personal assistant, Yeah Ellen, I have a question, did I have anything I was supposed to tell this guy? Yeah? Really? Thanks. Yeah my personal assistant says fuck you. No wait let me call my mother, I'm sure she would like to say fuck you to you as well.

Alright listen up you primitive screwheads, now if you are disturbed by a woman's choice of bed bunny calling her a slut is NOT the way to ensure an invitation into her boudoir. If anything, she will never EVER touch you again.

And just to clarify, I'm a bitch not a slut. If you're going to insult me, at least get it right, flapjack.

A slut is a woman who fucks everyone at the bar.

A bitch is a woman who fucks everyone at the bar BUT YOU. (One of the bartenders I used to be friends with used to take great delight in introducing me to his friends as "his bitch" and then proceed to explain the difference. I wanted him to make me an official "Sean's Bitch" t-shirt.)

I was initially furious with being called a slut, but then I remembered the stories my mother told me about being the only girl happily playing amongst the boys as a child and I thought, "Fuck him. I'm going to talk who I enjoy talking to and if HE can't handle that, well, that's his problem."

Why is it so hard to conceive that while I might be surrounded by male attention, I am not sleeping with any of these men?

Labels: boys, idiocy, male harem, slut