I’ve recently been considering investing in a flak jacket. Some family members and a few close friends have expressed concern for my safety in light of me airing my dirty laundry here on my blog, or “on-the-line” as the P-Child would say. I told them that the ahole guys I’m talking smack about can go f@&$ themselves.

The dudes I’m bagging on are not good guys; it’s not as if they’re sound men who’ve made one poor decision. They’re immature dickheads who’ve demonstrated patterns of selfish or bizarre behavior and I will not put up with it.

Seems like a really good time for this quote: “This aggression will not stand man.” ~ The Dude

I love The Big Lebowski. I think they say f&@$ more than I do.

If I had the chance to say the things I’m writing here into the ears of the people I’m defacing, I would do it. Admittedly that is not Christian. Really none of this blog demonstrates that I’m a Christian. I hope God knows my heart under all these curse words and judgement. I’m just trying to humor people and in the process it makes light of the burdens I sometimes carry.

Anyway I am sensitive and Lord knows most of my burden is of my own doing. I am responsible for the times I have tolerated shit behavior. I believe however, that another part of the struggle is insecure men who act like psychos or compulsively lie. That’s the majority of the struggle and I’m going to air their shit all over this hole-in-the-wall blog. This is a part of me healing the wounds I’ve allowed into my heart. If that is the end of my pristine reputation, so be it. I had a good run.

My Dad on my blog: “Andrea I think you’re funny, but I really wish you would stop using the f-word so much.” You don’t hear the P-Child saying that of course, because she enjoys the fine China of curse words as much as I do.

Fair argument though Dad. When I hear people say f$&@ in public, I stank eye their ass to high heaven. It is so belligerent. I despise it especially around children – it just sounds so ignorant. But I think when I use it, I caress it gently onto this screen and it’s received warmly and with a touch of humor. I hope for that anyway.

After reading almost all of my posts, my Mom will call me laughing and she’ll say, “For God’s sake Andrea. People may come to find you with these stories you’re writing about them. I just can’t believe all this shit.” You’re telling me P.

Speaking of shit. My Mom once insisted I talk to this guy she used to work with. A fix-it guy who she thought was very nice and seemed to have his biz together. Surprisingly my mom hasn’t ever really set me up, so I considered it. I allowed her to give him my number. What a mistake that was.

I’m starting to consider answering telemarketers over half these idiots I willingly give my number to. You know that shit’s bad when a person would rather speak to India.

This guy texted me a few times and I’m old fashioned so I tell him he can call me sometime. He types: “Ok, I will when I get home. Driving now.” That should have been my first clue he was an oddball.

He called me later that evening and as soon as I picked up, I could hear all this odd commotion happening. Pots and pans banging, dogs barking, TV blaring, buses in the background. That may be a bit of an Andrea exaggeration but it was loud AF. There was rustling and I think he let the phone hit the floor like 3 times. I’m thinking you know you called me right? Not like I was calling him and interrupting him in the middle of a construction project – he friggin dialed me. Anyway his recovery from dropping the phone and the chaos on his end was not good. I was laughing cause I thought it was ridiculous. He didn’t acknowledge it, but rather tried to brush over it.

You know, like when you’re on the phone and you have to flush the toilet. You hit the handle and then run fast as hell out of the bathroom, so the other end doesn’t hear the whooshing water. But they actually listen to it all and ask what you’re doing. You say: “Oh yeah I’m doing dishes right now. Just finished up with a big dinner party. Sorry bout that.” That’s something my sister pulls all the time. (We’ll see if she actually reads this post.)

Anyway we chatted a bit that night and it seemed that the majority of our convo was about Facebook and how often he’s on there; what he follows and why he doesn’t go on more often.

Needless to say, I totally could have flushed multiple times on this conversation and I wouldn’t have even tried to hide it. Can you hear that? That’s the toilet flushing. That’s how unenthusiastic I was. So he asked if he could call the next night and I (was probably drinking wine and) thought it was endearing that he asked, so I agreed.

The next night when oddball called, he didn’t have much to say. And I didn’t either. We texted from there on out. He was a few years older than me so I thought he might be more mature, but alas, he wasn’t. The message that sealed the deal was when he wrote me about his neighbor coming home from the bar with her late night escapades. Some inappropriate expletives describing her homelife habits followed.

Of note, my mother worked with him at a facility that was founded on strict Christianity and she was nothing but extremely professional and respectful at work. He must not have picked up manners on how to speak to a lady as classy as myself in his life thus far. Strong sarcasm there, but you get the idea. Hello oddball. And then goodbye.

My mom apologized profusely for suggesting this guy. But as I said to her, she wouldn’t have ever known he was a dingleberry weenis. He did in fact have some good qualities that made him stand out – played piano, maintained a cabin up north, extremely handy. But you know what else was wrong? I wasn’t really attracted to him. He had this stunted upturned nose thing happening. And he sent me really weird selfies, unprompted. Like him driving, looking all serious at the road. As if you couldn’t see his arm and he wasn’t the one taking the photo of himself. Another shot of his face reflected in a bank teller screen, not smiling. Wth.

I wonder if I was more attracted to him though, if I would have put up with some of his shit. Because the reality is I think it is really fucking hard to find a dude who is handsome and studly. I mean you know what I’m about to say here I’m sure… all of the handsome hotties are taken.

All of this to say… material will just keep coming because I keep finding friggin’ weirdos. That is one of the reasons why I was compelled to start this blog in the first place. To tell stories about dudes who cheat, lie, are hot messes and wear jeans with sparkles on them. They may be too clingy, or completely avoidant. They’ll have halitosis or suffer from fat-head-itis. That is, swelling of the fucking personality and thinking of themselves as possessing some grandiose greatness.

I have told some of these gems they’re crackpots, right to their face. Some I haven’t had the chance to tell, or maybe haven’t had the heart to tell. But I’m tired of it and encountering all these men has made me feel like maybe I’m the common denominator, right? Like I’m part at fault for choosing them when they turn out to be such oddballs.

Deep down though and through a lot of work, I am slowly realizing otherwise. Yes I am an imperfect person no doubt, but I don’t think I necessarily deserve these friggin whack jobs who are telling me about their neighbor’s sex life before I even meet them in person. Who does shit like that? Loonies, that’s who. And until I run into the loonie that I’m in love with and don’t want to live without (and hopefully they feel the same), I’m continuing to catalog my dating gong show.

A-Child (my sister who requests to remain anonymous in my blog and has only read approximately 3 of my posts) can continue to ignore that I’m doing this. And my family members who tell me I should move far away or come up with an alias, will have to keep praying for my safety. Because if these stranger things I’m meeting in the dating world need to be unmasked, I’ll be the one to step up, represent and expose the shit out of them. And if they want to bring the fight to me, I’ve got my big German arms flexed y’all, and the flak jacket on order.

If you air your dirty laundry in public, expect people to comment on the skid marks.

2 thoughts on “Flexin’

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