Making Out with a Murderer

Note: This post is extremely long and for that I apologize.

Our last night in Vegas, my friend and I went to this all-white nightclub called Pure. (Note: "all-white" refers to the furniture and fixtures, not the people). We had a great time but the music started to take a turn for the techno so we left around 1:30. We went back to our hotel and made a last minute decision to stop by LAX again to get a few more dances in before tapping out for the night. While at the club, these two guys approached us. Their names? Freddy and Jason.

Yes, like the killers in the movies!! I am not making this up!

I hit it off with Freddy and my friend hit it off with Jason, both of whom were from New York. Freddy was cuter, but Jason was more my type (go figure. I hate myself and my standards). We danced and chatted with them for an hour or so, and I got the impression they wanted to leave with us and possibly come back to our rooms to "hang out". There was no way in hell I was going to hook up with this guy I'd just met, so I told my friend that I was going to head out while they were paying their bar tab to avoid the awkward "sorry, I don't want to sleep with you" convo that was inevitable. She told me that was rude, so I stuck around for awhile. They came back and Freddy asked me what we were doing afterwards. Instead of responding like a normal, mature human being and making it clear that I didn't want to hang out afterwards, I did the first thing that came to mind.

I sprinted out of the club.

I ran so fast that security thought I was trying to ditch my tab and followed me out of the club. Through her laughter, my friend told them I was fine and wasn't trying to drink-n-dash. She, Freddy, and Jason briskly walked through the hotel to catch up with me but they were no match. I made it onto the elevator when I heard Freddy yell "hold the door!" and this stupid broad who was in there with me held the door so the three of them could get on. The whole 12-floor ride up to our room Freddy asked me why I was trying to avoid them. Again, I did the first thing that came to mind.

I told him I was a "sweet Southern virgin" and that I didn't want to get his hopes up that something sexual would happen between us later. Half true; I'll let you guys decide which half.

Freddy Krueger and The Sweet Southern Virgin. Sounds like a children's book, no?

He was nice about it and actually ended up being a really cool guy. The four of us hung out in our hotel room, drinking and talking until about 5 a.m. Even though Freddy was "my" guy, my friend was definitely hitting it off with him more and I was hitting it off with Jason more. A little after 5, I passed out mid-conversation because I was exhausted.

Around 5:45, I woke up to a pitch black room and Freddy kissing me. I was irritated that he woke me up from my sleep but didn't really mind the kissing. His lips and hands started to drift but I quickly smacked them away (I'm a virgin, remember?) and then he asked if I wanted him to leave to which I responded yes. As I rolled over to go back to sleep, I looked over and saw my friend hooking up with Jason. I thought it was kind of odd that she was hooking up with him since she didn't seem that into him but didn't give it much thought.

The next morning my friend and I were lounging around, nursing hangovers and debating where to go for lunch. I made a comment about how I was surprised that she hooked up with Jason. This was the conversation that followed:

Her: I didn't hook up with Jason.
Me: WHO DID YOU HOOK UP WITH?!?! I saw a guy in your bed!!!
Her: Freddy!
Me: But Freddy was in my bed last night.
Her: No, Freddy was in my bed. Jason was in your bed.
Me: WHAAAAAAAT?!?!?!
Her: You didn't realize that was Jason?
Me: No!
Her: Yeah well after you went to sleep we discussed how Freddy and I were more compatible and you and Jason were more compatible, so we decided to switch.
Me: *blank stare*

It's been over 24 hours and I am still completely befuddled by the whole situation. What the hell, Vegas. What. The. Hell.

Chippy

A friend and I went to Las Vegas for the weekend for no actual reason except that we like to party and travel. We stayed at the Luxor, the big pyramid hotel that you see in movies and whatnot (fun fact: since the hotel walls are diagonal the elevator moves diagonally, which is fun when you're sober and scary as hell when you're not).

After going to the Lady Gaga concert (which was incredible, by the way) we went to this club in our hotel called LAX. It was absolutely insane in the best possible way. Great music, free entry, and most importantly, open bar for women from 10-12. We'd been there for about two hours when these two guys approached us. The taller, cuter one approached my friend and the shorter, harder-on-the-eyes one approached me. Shocker.

Anyone who knows me knows I am WAY too nice to guys who approach me. What can I say, I have a big heart. It takes a lot of courage to approach a sexy lady like myself so I feel bad turning guys down. I'll start being more selective in 2014. Maybe.

 

This picture has no relevance whatsoever and was actually taken on a different night than the night this blog is about, I just really like it.

This guy introduced himself to me as BJ and since I'm mature I immediately thought blow job and wondered if this was his way of asking me to give him one. The more I talked to him, though, the more I realized he'd probably never gotten a blowie in his life and definitely wasn't going to get one that night.

He first told me I was beautiful, naturally beautiful, because I didn't have on any make-up. I had on eyeliner, mascara, concealer, and lip gloss but I let it go. Next, he told me he loved my "naturally curly" hair. I'd spent 30 minutes straightening it before going out. Basically this kid was already 0-for-2 and continued to get worse from there.

He then told me I had a beautiful smile. I smiled in response...and then he said, "Wait. Do you have a chipped tooth?!" which caught me COMPLETELY off guard. (For those of you who don't know, I chipped my front tooth when I was 13 on a class trip to DC. A classmate named Colin was chasing me around our hotel and when he caught up with me he accidentally pushed my head into a glass window and my front tooth broke off in my hand. The moral of this story is chase guys, don't let them chase you. After the incident, one of my 8th grade teachers nicknamed me "Chippy", a nickname that I looooove and never got sick of*).

 

Relevant photo from the night.

Back to BJ. After I got over the shock of being asked about my tooth, I told him yeah, I'd chipped it awhile ago but had also gotten it fixed awhile ago too. He grinned wide and said, "Me too!!!! Look!" I pretended to see it and nodded politely, mustering up an "Oh wow!" and giving my friend "SAVE ME" eyes. Next, BJ told me I reminded him of his mother because I was genuine and naturally pretty (here we go again). He then pulled out his cell phone to show me pictures of his mother and told me she had breast cancer and that he was afraid of losing another parent because his dad died when he was younger.

Before you start to a) feel sorry for him and b) think I'm a bad person for exploiting him on this blog, keep it mind it was roughly 2 a.m. when this conversation took place and this club was packed. 'Twas not the time nor the place. I was sympathetic (well, as sympathetic as one can be with "Back That Ass Up" playing in the background) and even gave him my number. He asked me if I could send him a pic of me in my "Cruella deVille" dress to which I responded no.  His next question: are you on Instagram? Being the wonderful person that I am, I gave him my Instagram name and he followed me right then and there. Don't worry, I blocked him the next morning.

Last thing: when I saved his number in my phone I saved it as "BJ". He said, "Uhhh actually my name is Deron. People call me DJ for short though." Oops.


*This is a lie. That nickname still haunts me to this day.

I Need More Black Friends

I've attended predominantly white schools my entire life. My elementary and high schools were diverse but still had a majority population and my colleges were private and located in the South so... well, you know. As a result, I have a good amount of white friends. I probably have just as many, if not more, white friends as I do black. To be fair, I also have a lot of friends who are of other races (no Asians though--I'm slightly racist towards them for no good reason.)

Having white friends is awesome. Without them, I would have never been to a beach house, an open bar wedding, the inside of the KA house, etc. I also wouldn't know what polo was or just how comfortable Rainbows are. However, I need more black friends.

My white friends are great in the fact that they're always respectful of my skin tone, but sometimes they err on the side of caution to the extreme. For example, my suite mate junior year once said "Not to be racist, but can you use a blow dryer?" Nope, I air dry my hair while I'm out in the field picking cotton. The one I get over and over again though is: "Not to be racist, but can you get a sunburn?" The answer is YES. I got a terrible sunburn when I was 11 after hanging out poolside with my (white) friends for 8+ hours. The sun does not discriminate!

Also, these questions aren't racist. Asking me what Busta Rhymes was saying in that one song and to teach you how to dougie also aren't racist, just slightly annoying and stereotypical.

For many of my white friends I am their best and/or only black friend, so they think I know the answers to everything about my race, which simply isn't true. I don't know why black people love watermelon, hate mayonnaise, and are always associated with fried chicken. I don't know why there's no White History Month or White Entertainment Television. I don't know why Beyonce's hair always looks so good (actually I do know: weave). I don't know why black women are always so angry, but I would bet it has something to do with black men. Sheesh. That's a post for a different day, though. Hell, that could be an entire blog...

My "First" 5K

This weekend I successfully completed my first 5K. Technically I've done two 5Ks in the past but I was 12 for one of them and hungover for the other so this was my first one as an actual running (jogging) adult. Over the past couple of months I've been running 3-4 days a week both at the gym and outdoors so signing up for a 5K seemed like a logical thing to do, plus running with a goal in mind is so much better than just running for the heck of it.

The 5K was in Cowpens, South Carolina and was hosted by a local running organization. I really, really wanted to find a 5K that supported a cause I cared about because running is stupid and paying to run is even more stupid. If the money were going to a good cause I would feel much better about it. Unfortunately, my friend and I were unable to find a January race nearby that was cause-oriented, so we paid 20 bucks each to run for no real reason.

My three goals going into the race were: don't die, don't walk, and don't take more than 30 minutes to cross the finish line. Thanks to the man upstairs and the fact that a good third of the race was downhill, I completed all three goals. There was one point during the race that I thought I might have to walk, or worse, vomit, but I pushed through and thought about the wonderful shower and meal I was going to indulge in post-race. After I crossed the finish line I kept running--straight into a field of grass where I sprawled out gracefully and tried to catch my breath/slow my heart rate/stay alive.

I finished in 29:23; 44th out of the 115 women who participated and 129th out of the 245 total runners. Most importantly, I finished THIRD in my age group!!!! Not too flabby. (Excuse the pun).

A scene from my favorite movie, Forrest Gump. This is basically how the race was, with me in the front and everyone else trying to catch up with me. I didn't have on a hat, however. Or a beard.

Although I by no means consider myself a runner, it felt amazing to reach a running goal. I heard the other day that 90% of Americans can't run a mile and I survived running three in less than half an hour. I don't love running, but I do love the feeling of completing a run. I love getting faster and feeling stronger. I love pushing my body to see what my limits actually are. Most of all though, I love how my abs look like a Hershey bar post workout.

Sleepovers

Contrary to popular belief, I hate spending the night with men. I love sleep and sleeping by myself is one of my absolute favorite things to do. I can drool, get up to pee, and of course, hog the covers with no judgment when sleeping alone. When sleeping with someone else, however, I feel like I have to sleep like a robot on her period. No thanks.

I wish I looked this cute while sleeping. Sigh.

I have dermatographic urticaria, a skin disorder that causes hive-like breakouts. To combat this disorder and avoid being treated like a leper, I take allergy medicine every night. Since I don't carry allergy medicine with me, if I spend the night at a guy's place there is a 100% chance I will break out in hives at some point during the night. You guys can only imagine how embarrassing this is: being covered in welts while in the arms of a man, usually post-intercourse, trying hard not to scratch and even harder to convince him I don't have an STD.

Usually when this happens I scratch in silence or rummage through their cabinets in hopes of finding a shot of Benadryl. If that doesn't work I bring out the big guns: telling them I'm allergic to latex. Most guys take sympathy on me; others politely say "so maybe we just shouldn't use a condom this time". I'm covered in hives and you want to expose your bare penis to this?!?! Fair enough, let's do it.

Secondly, I am the strangest sleeper alive. I sleep like Superman: face down with my arms straight out in front of me and my toes hanging off of the bed. Spooning is nice, but I can't fall asleep 1. on my side or 2. with a dick on my back. I usually maintain the cuddle until the guy falls asleep, then I break the cuddle and head straight into Superman position.

This is exactly how I sleep. Cape included.

The last major issue I face with male sleepovers is the inability to wrap my hair before we fall asleep. If I don't wrap my hair at night or sleep on a satin pillowcase (I know, I know, I'm a diva) my hair loses a ton of moisture and I end up looking like a slave. It's bad: dry, unmanageable, and all over the place. That combined with the drool and the hives makes me the absolute least attractive person in the world to wake up next to. Unless of course we spend the night at my place, in which case I can control these extraneous variables and look fabulous as always.

Spanx and the City

Most people think I'm pretty put together. I did well in school, have a full-time job and seem sane so most people think I have my life in order.

Most people are fools.

I am a hot mess. New Years Eve was a perfect example of just how hot of a mess I am.

Monday, 6:00 p.m.
Arrive in Atlanta after making a last-minute decision to spend New Years there with my friends instead of in my apartment, alone, drinking champagne and crying.

Monday, 8:30 p.m.
Pregaming commences. I decide to be classy and drink Patron and Grey Goose.

Monday, 9:00 p.m.
I decide to be "classy" and not wear any underwear. Note: THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT. I was going to wear a Spanx but my friends told me I didn't need to (aww!) so I didn't. In my excitement about not needing a Spanx, I forgot to put on underwear. Whoops. The moral of this story is don't drink and dress.

Monday, 9:30 p.m.

Monday, 10:15 p.m.
Leave friend's apartment to go to club, bottle of wine in tow for the 25-minute ride there.

Monday, 10:40 p.m.
Arrive at club with full bladder. Since I don't have on underwear, peeing outside in the bushes is not only an option, it's the best option. I pee some on the bushes, mostly on my foot.

Monday, 10:50 p.m.
Enter club. Immediately find the stage and start dancing on it. Laugh when boys ask me to dance because 1. Usher is playing and I always dance solo to Usher and 2. I just peed on my foot and these boys have no idea.

Monday, 11:40 p.m.
Fall. Hard. Fortunately some nice guys help me up and place me back on the stage where I belong.

Tuesday, 12:00 a.m.
Happy New Year! Make out with the closest person to me, a guy who tells me his name is Marge. He looked like he was from a country that ends in -stan, but he spoke English. I think.

Tuesday, 1:00 a.m.
Get invited to VIP. Take several, several shots with some friends from high school and a white guy named Sanchez who may or may not have roofied me.

Tuesday, 2:30 a.m.
Leave club after an amazing night. Sleep in the backseat the whole way home. Arrive at friend's apartment; trip getting out of the car and land on my back with my feet still in the car. Seriously re-evaluate my life and my decision making skills.

Tuesday, 3:00 a.m.
Take off dress because the sequins are cutting into my skin. Get redressed in appropriate pajamas and go to sleep peacefully!

Tuesday, 3:00 a.m. (for real this time)
Take off dress because the sequins are cutting into my skin. Pass out naked on an air mattress. Friends cover me with a blanket and then proceed to play spades around my body.

Night = fantastic. Next 24 hours = not so much. I have 20+ cuts all over my arms and legs from violently taking off my dress. My booty is bruised from the fall. I have a lip-shaped bruise on my neck (how did that get there?!) Oh, and my hair currently looks like this: