To Come Or Not to Come

I have a sex story for you guys. I have yet to crank it out, but it's on the horizon like a giant yacht that you hope sinks to the bottom of the fucking ocean because those rich bastards don't deserve it, dammit. I don't know why it takes me so fucking long to blog stories; I feel it correlates with how long it takes me to come... it's a lot of work, and I don't like work, so I usually don't get anything from it because you're not going to orgasm from just lying there, unconscious-like. By the way, my roommate, the other day, noticed on the bathroom stalls in one of her campus buildings that someone spelled orgasm as "orgizm." I've been running with it, because it brings the best of both worlds: orgasm and jizm. Speaking of orgizms, the same roommate squirted in her booty call's mouth and homeboy goes, "Oh... OH, so that's how girls feel." Yeah, motherfucker, surprise liquids in the mouth aren't as fun as Splash Mountain at Disney.

Anyways, expect a story soon.

Love always,
Anonymous Batman

Sing-Talking

Rebecca Black has inspired me; I have been sing-talking my every move for the past two days. "Getting up, feel like ass; shouldn't have drank, just smoke grass. Wake up next to my big black friend; her weave is jacked; she'll never get a man." People have been so supportive with my new creative outlet. "I swear to god if you sing-talk one more fucking time, I will take this fork and jab it in your goddamn eye." The people love me.


I'm terrorizing Charleston, SC tomorrow and Friday. I decided to try a tame, classy spring break destination, but I'll most likely end up passed out in a ditch with my panties showing and used condom stuck to my forehead. Shit happens.

via

Sharing

I'm sharing this with you all, because obviously I hate you.

I should probably put WARNING: VIEWING THIS VIDEO WILL CAUSE HOMICIDAL RAGE, BLEEDING FROM THE EARS, AND MISANTHROPY as the headline, but then I thought about it and decided, "Nah."

Generally, I steer away from insulting popular culture, because, unfortunately, my generation is largely a part of it. (And one of our characteristics is extreme, undeserving narcissism, and it makes me immensely uncomfortable to test my superb egotism.) But what in the fuck is this shit? It's like my 9-year-old cousin sing-talking her fucking diary to me as I try to get my drink on while I babysit her. It's just sad and annoying, and I'm praying that it will be over soon so I can get fucked up and pass out on the recliner to Golden Girls. Who in the fuck produced this shit, and why are they not hiding in a cave with Bin Laden somewhere? That's embarrassing dude or dudette. You created this shitspectacle for all the world to see; you let this little girl think that 1) she has talent and 2) that this is a fucking song.

Dear Media, I let you thrust Ke$ha down my throat because I can ignore her annoying-ass, auto-tuned voice and listen to the beat when I'm blitzed. I let you sexualize a lesbian-looking, jail-bait Biebs as he dry humps his way around a stage, and sings about buying fucking blow-pop rings for bitches. But this... come on; my already retarded, useless mind can't handle this crap.

Who the fuck is MosDef? And why did I not know this motherfucker was highlarious?

They Poisoned Me! Be Careful!

One of my friends scored a big-girl job in Alaska, and I wanted to celebrate the fact that I actually knew someone that was not on their 7th year of school or working at Olive Garden. So, I bought some champagne to toast to her accomplishment (of dying in the wilderness where no one fucking lives). Then another friend met up with us, and I added whisky to the bubbly. Did I mention this was a Tuesday night? And I had three classes the following day? Oh, yeah.

The next day, I went to my first class armed with a mug of water and sunglasses. We were peer-editing one another's papers, and as I was attempting to edit a paper on global warming, the words began to bleed together. I put my head between my legs and sat there for five minutes, just chilling. Once the waves of nausea became gentle ripples, I wrote in the margins of the paper, "I'm sorry, but I'm fucking dying. From the three words I could decipher through this hangover, it looks alright. It's not making me vomit if that's any consolation... hardy-har :)." I scooted the paper over to the chick, got up, and went to the bathroom.

During the next class, my incredible will power failed me. I was staring blankly at my computer screen, willing the hours to pass by (for the love of GOD!), when the familiar feeling of wanting to up-chuck came over me. I tried to fight it; I really did. But soon my mouth was overflowing with saliva, and I knew that I had a limited time span before shit was going to get real. So I stood up, knocked my chair over, and walked with purpose towards the door. The professor stopped her lecture and asked, "Where are you going?" With a panicked look in my eye, I simply raised my index finger to indicate, "Bitch, give me a fucking minute." I made it outside of the classroom door and proceeded to projectile vomit all in the trash can in the hallway. It was clear, and fast, and came out at an alarming speed like a fire hose extinguishing a rampant fire. After I was done cleansing myself of toxins, I looked up and noticed that a girl was sitting outside waiting on her next class.

"Dear God!" exclaims the stranger.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and give her the once over.
"They poisoned me! Be careful." I say, and then turn back into my classroom to finish the class.

Lessons learned from this experience:

1. DO NOT mix alcohol. I've known this since middle school, when I thought it would be cute to drink my friend's parent's wine, tequila, and vodka, and then roll around in their yard at 5 in the morning. The next day, I rolled my head in their toilet until about 5 p.m. when my mom picked me up and continuously asked me if I wanted some runny eggs until I went to bed that night. I don't know why, at 21 years old, I still think it's cute to get shithoused drunk off a mixture of different alcohol, because now I FEEL how fucking old I am; I've lost my youthful resilience, and I do not recover at 5 p.m. anymore, I recover two days later like a bitch.
2. DO NOT chug water, no matter how dehydrated you are the next day. Because you will projectile vomit an impressive amount a short time later. Again, knew this bit of information beforehand, but still like to test my limits.
3. When you do something extremely embarrassing and someone is there to witness it, just exclaim the first thing that pops in your head. Bonus points if it's completely random and slightly weird. That girl was probably so confused and bewildered that she probably questioned everyone's motives for the rest of the day. "Who's they? And why did they try to poison that girl? Will they do that to me? Why did she say be careful?" See, I switched it up so the girl is worried about herself (aren't we all) and isn't telling people about the hungover piece of shit, that can't control her alcohol intake, barf blasting in a trash can outside her classroom.

Twatter & Millionaire Shitmaker

I have a twitter now – add me assholes.

I’ve been debating on whether or not to get a twatter because 1. I already have a non-anonymous one that I spew word vomit on and 2. I’d basically be twatting to myself (not that it matters to me, I think I’m fucking high-larious).

But recently, my friends have asked me to stop talking excessively about “periods and touching myself”. And since the people that actually read the shit I write about on this blog are just as depraved and fucked up as me (aka have a goddamn great sense of humor), I thought I’d share my best little gems with you. (Aw, we’re besties now. You should name your first born after me or make me a godparent or some shit.)

In other news, I was watching Millionaire Matchmaker this morning (stop judging me) and on this particular episode there was a Millionairess that couldn’t get peen because she’s too “masculine”. One of the examples of how she was masculine gave me a laughy-laugh.

So, this rich bitch went on an outing with another millionaire. (Not a date, but a “Hey, I’m fucking loaded and can’t get someone to love me, too; Let’s chat.”) Their vices: She was masculine and he had some ADHD-holy-shit-I-talk-really-fucking-fast-I’m-a-cracked-out-pomeranian issue. Anyways, they meet up and are being leered at by some body language bitch. (She was supposed to be incognito, but when some fucker is straight staring at me and writing in a notebook, I generally take notice.) So, body language bitch was judging the shit out of their interaction in order to critique them later.

They meet. Everything is hunky doory. And the dude orders a beer with some concoction that’s holding it. He has no fucking clue how to remove it. (Neither would I. I generally just pop the tab and BAM instant gratification.) He’s turning this sucker around, gazing at it, and the girl laughs and shows him how to remove it.

Later on when they meet up with Patti’s loud, obnoxious ass, she reprimands the rich chick for helping dumbass drink his beer. It’s apparently masculine to explain how to get your glass removed from this wooden fucking block so you can get your drink on. Who knew?

It irked the fuck out of me. 

It irked me because I think it would have been more masculine (and what I would have done in that situation) to sit there and make fun of him mercilessly as he tried to drink with a wooden block around his beer. Is that not what guys do?

The show rubs my nipples wrong because of the way this Patti chick tries to shape men and women into stereotypical masculine and feminine roles. I won’t get really deep on you fuckers, but I will say that in a relationship I will be feminine for a dude; I’ll wear lingerie, bake shit, etc. but I’ll also curse like a sailor and use sarcasm fluently. It’ll be a balance between feminine and masculine. I’m not gong to trick some poor fucker into thinking I’m sweet and well-mannered, and then BAM all of a sudden I have the demeanor of Britney Spears post-Y2K. I want to be upfront; you’re dating a chick with a dick (or a dude with a vagine, whatever makes you more comfortable). What I’m trying to say is: I’ll fucking laugh my ass off at you when you act retarded. 

Masturbation brings people together.

I’ve been rubbing one out so often that I’m starting to have a forearm complex. If I wear a short sleeve shirt I have to strategically place my body in a certain position so that both arms aren’t placed side by side for comparison. My right arm is abnormally Hulkish, while my left arm looks like a starved kid from Darfur. It’s fucking disturbing.

The other day I got back from class to find my apartment empty. I did the usual, “Yo, fuckers! Anybody here?” to make sure that my good fortune was reality. No response. So, I turn on the ole laptop and pull up some youporn. I neglected to shut my door, because I was so enraptured with the process of loving myself, and I ended up hitting the floor with my hands in my pants as my roommate entered the living room.

“You were masturbating, weren’t you?”

“Possibly, perhaps.”

I don’t really hide it.

In fact, freshman year of college, I had the bottom bunk and my roommate was a talker. (Like, “How was your day?” and, “What are you doing tomorrow” kind of conversationalist right before bed.) So, I’d simply stroke the beaver while she prattled on and on, oblivious to the perversion going on below her. I eventually told her, because I wanted to freak her out and I thought it would be funny, and at first she reacted the way I expected: disgusted, shocked, appalled… but eventually she accepted it, and we’ve been best friends for over three years. 

Now I simply announce it, so the roommates know to leave me the fuck alone once I go into my room. “Well—I’m off to pet my chia pet. See you bitches in the mañana.”

My dude friends act like I’m the only female to ever masturbate. I guess I’m the only vagina that ever talks about pleasing herself in front of them. They always ask, “Batman, why don’t you let a guy do it for you? Just turn into a slut already, you clearly like sex.” I contemplate their remark and then counteract with, “You make a valid point, but I must say that I masturbate excessively because I’m the best lover I’ve ever had. Not once have I had sex with myself and had to fake anything. I’ve ALWAYS gotten off. So, until I meet someone that can rival my own loving, I refuse to dump me.” We all sit in silence for a minute and then go out back and chug a PBR (or whatever piss in a can is on sale). Good times.

So, what I’m saying, dear blog friends, is this: Masturbation brings people together. 

Fuck You, Online Dating

I tried Match.com:

1. I thought it would automatically rule out the majority of douches and weirdoes because these men were paying hard earned cash money (using their mom’s credit cards) in order to find a special someone. 

and 

2. They have a 7 day free trail, so why the fuck not?

I set up my profile and as soon as I uploaded some pics I was winked and prodded by all sorts of freaks…er, I mean gentleman callers. I ignored the winks, because really dudes, a virtual wink is the equivalent of a real life boob honk--it just feels wrong. Send me an email so I can judge you mercilessly for not being witty enough or spellin lik dis.

I ended up settling on two dudes, out of the numerous other candidates that ranged from: listing their cat, Belvidere, as their best friend; being 30-something and still getting drunk downtown “like every night with my boys”; or just incapable of carrying on a conversation past, “What’s your major? Cool, cool.”

The two candidates were exact opposites. One was still in college; a thin cute guy that enjoyed jazz and was majoring in Computer Science. The other guy was a Guido juicehead that was a bodybuilder/ Assistant P.E. teacher at a local private school.  After a week and a half of communicating through emails, the Guido wanted my phone number because: “I really enjoy talking to you. I hate that it’s limited to me only doing so when I’m around my computer.” It seemed legit enough, and I was enjoying his conversational skills, so I handed over the digits.

He called me immediately. I ignored it because I was with my family, and to be honest, I fucking suck on the phone. I suck at communicating on the phone with my best friends; how damn awkward do you think it would be with a stranger? When I didn’t pick up, he immediately sent me a text asking what was up. I explained my social retardation, he LOL’d all over the place, and we spent that night texting back and forth.

He texted me at 9 a.m., every morning, while he was slaving for “the man” at work. I would reply around 11 a.m. – Noonish because my ass was on break, and enjoying the fact that I didn’t have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to finish lab reports or random group projects. From then on out, it was text after text after text—needless to say, it was a bit tiring for me. I should probably explain: I’m a recluse. Now, this doesn’t describe my nature all of the time (clearly I have some shithoused social stories to share) but generally, I curl up inside myself and disappear from the world a few weeks out of the month. My friends have always known this about me, and they accept it. When I come back out of my shell, they welcome me with open arms. It’s just the way I am; I can’t explain the nature that is Batman.

So, communicating with someone non-stop for weeks at a time wears me out. He was excessive, and he started to give me red flags when he was word-vomiting things like: “You’re not like any girl I’ve ever talked to. You love football, and Archer, and have the mouth of a sailor. I’ve never felt this comfortable with a girl. I really, really, really like you. I’m not letting you get away,” and, “I need to see you? When can I see you? WHEN!? WHEN!?!?!?!”

I was 4 hours away from this motherfucker and he wanted me to hop in my car and drive to him immediately. Even when I did drive back to my college town, I let him know that I wouldn’t be able to meet right away because my dad was planning on coming to celebrate New Years with me. He was trying to plan a date while my dad was in town, and even said, "I don't mind meeting him." What the fuck?  I jokingly said, “Whoa, cowboy. Can we not wait? What do you think, that I’m going to up and disappear in a matter of days?” He replied with, “Yes, girls have done that to me. You’re special, I can tell. I don’t want to lose you.”

He eventually broke me down out of shear exhaustion. I was sick, my dad bailed, and he texted me asking me to, “Please, please meet him for a movie or something.” I told him I was sick, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and even said, “I love to watch movies when I’m sick. You’ll be fine.” 

Yeah…

I ended up passing out an hour before I was supposed to meet him. I was doped up on so much Nyquil I really didn’t know what the fuck was going on. The only thing that woke me up was the excessive buzzing of my phone. Guido was ready for that goddamn movie.

I got my happy ass up and headed on my merry way to the theater. On the way there I’m getting texts like, “Where are you?” and, “Are you still coming?” and, “Should I go ahead and get the tickets?” I reply with, “On my way,” and throw my phone in the back of the car.

As I’m walking up to the theater I see a group of teenage boys standing outside and my first thought was, “Fucking great. One of these douches stole their mommy’s credit card and portrayed themselves as their gym teacher. It explains the neediness though.” But no, in the circle of boys stood the bodybuilder and as I walked up I laughed and said, “Are you guys talking about me?”

The teenagers whistled and said, "Way to go," to the Guido. He blushed, putting his hand on the small of my back and ushering me inside. We joked before the movie, we joked after the movie, he walked me to my car, I made comments about how shitty he should feel for making a sick woman come out in this weather (hardy-har-har) and then I hugged him goodbye.

I didn’t feel any sparks. If anything, it could have been a nice friendship. He texted me later commenting on how I looked and how he’d like to take me out the next day. I declined, because I was hacking up my lungs at that point.

Then, shit started to get real. I slept for two days straight trying to get whatever crud inside of me to die. The only time I woke up was to chug OJ or take more Nyquil. Well, in this time period, homeboy is still texting me. I’m in a comatose state, so of course I’m incapable of responding. DID.NOT.GO.OVER.WELL.

He told me I was inconsiderate. Would then ask me out. Said I was leading him on. Then wondered if I’d like to watch a game with him. When I was feeling halfway better (and going through my voicemails and texts) I finally decided to up and delete the dude from my phone and facebook.

Moral of the story: FUCK ONLINE DATING.

I'm Back

My, my how utterly shameful it is for me to allow my blogging to deteriorate to mere nothingness -- especially when I've been so busy embarrassing myself.

I should shat out a story about a bodybuilding Guido (that I went out with a few weeks ago) in the next few days. He was... interesting. I think my mental stimulation almost pushed him into random bouts of roid rage, but I don't want to spoil the story already. I hope everyones' new year has gone as splendidly as mine thus far; by that I mean I hope you bitches had a boil the size of an 8 month fetus on your ass that needed to be treated with antibiotics and you have a deer ass print indented into your driver's side door as well. 

Yours truly,

Batman