Big Boys

Big boys LOVE me. Not big like football-big, built-big... big like FAT. Fat fat fat. It never fails: anytime I go out with my girlfriends and we meet a group of guys, the biggest guy in the group flocks to me like a moth to a flame. I'm not sure if they like me because I look like I can cook or because I have a kind face and they think I'll give them a chance. Whatever it is, the biggest of the big always seeks me out.

If we got married I would be "Vic Ross". Sounds like a good enough reason to me.

To be fair, I love big boys too. They're usually funny, affectionate, and have low self-esteem which pretty much ensures they'll never leave me because they think they can't do any better. So that's good. Those are only a few benefits to being with a big boy; here are some more:

1. You can let yourself go and they can't say anything about it.
I dare any 300+ pound man to tell me that I've put on a few pounds or that I need to lose weight. Child please. I wouldn't entertain that BS from a normal-sized human, let alone a whale.

2. Big guys have an appetite
You can use your imagination here, but I've never met a big guy who didn't enjoy licking his plate clean. Mmmmm.

3. You will always look thin
What's easier than working out and safer than lipo? Standing next to someone huge.

Rob could be 200 pounds. We would never know.

That being said, there are a few downsides to being with a big boy:

1. You have to watch them eat
Big guys are expert eaters. They don't waste time with obstacles like napkins or silverware. They put their elbows on the table and sometimes lick fallen food from their clothes. I know that's a big generalization but we all know someone huge who has done these things so no worries.

2. They breathe hard
Remember that guy from Hey Arnold who always stood behind Helga, breathing heavily until he got punched? Imagine dealing with that all the time but not being able to punch your guy because he's huge and could kill you with his bare hands.

3. You always have to be on top
You can't be on the bottom. You just can't. And being on top is way too much work to keep doing night after night. There's no play wrestling, hot gym teacher/naive student role play, or naked Twister. Not that I'm into those types of things....

4. If you break up with them, they'll think it's because they're fat
Big boys are already riddled with insecurities (yes, even the funny ones) so if you break up with them they'll assume it's because they're fat. And maybe it is. On that note, if you or someone you know has recently broken up with a big boy, send him over to me. I'm always recruiting new members for the Clean Plate Club.

24

Original post from 2/6/13... I tried to fix a typo and it changed the date of this post to today. My bad.

In honor of today being my birthday, I present a montage of beautiful photos of me:

19th birthday; yes, I made all of my friends wear black so I could stand out more and get more attention (I have daddy issues, what can I say?) This birthday was amazing--we did karaoke at a bar for hours with some other guys who had the same birthday as I. As we exited the bar I stepped in some vomit which pretty much signaled that my birthday was over and the world was not going to revolve around me for another 364 days.

 20th birthday; I rented out a former fraternity house at Wofford and threw a party with two football players who were turning 21 and 22. This birthday is a little hazy, not gonna lie. Look at how many people came though!

 21st birthday; I made my abroad friends wear all black and they did (their people enslaved my people, whatever, we're even). Don't let the smile fool you: THIS WAS THE WORST BIRTHDAY EVER. I was abroad and homesick and cried for 9 hours straight. Also, I had a birthday dinner and invited my whole program to come. One of my classmates had the nerve to get hit by a car while crossing the street to attend my dinner. What an attention-seeking whore. I'm not sure I'll ever forgive her. 

 My 22nd birthday was on Super Bowl Sunday and it was phenomenal. My friends took advantage of the fact that I still remember most of my cheerleading dances from high school and made me perform them like some kind of circus monkey, which I loved. A few hours before this photo was taken, I tried to do a push up in tights on the counter top in my apartment which resulted in me slipping off of the counter top and bee-lining towards the ground. In an attempt to break my fall, I reached for the oven door handle and fell into the oven. Top 3 most painful things I have EVER experienced (I've hooked up with quite a few black males so that's saying something).

I didn't make my friends wear black for my 23rd. However, I only hung out with black people so it's kind of the same thing.

I'm kidding! For my 23rd I had a huge party at my apartment in Winston-Salem which was a wonderful and terrible idea. The cops came (allegedly) and someone broke my bedazzled birthday wine glass and I drank out of it anyway, cutting my lip in the process. Besides that it was an A+ night. I made electric lemonade, pink panty droppers, and a gin bucket which were a huge hit. Also, no one got hit by a car so that was nice, and more importantly, kept all focus on me.

Stalkers

I have already had 2 stalkers in my very short life. I think stalkers are attracted to me because I'm really nice to strangers and like to make them think I'm interested in whatever they're saying, even if I'm not.

I met my first stalker in the spring of 2005 when I was 16 and working at Aeropostale. His name was John and he approached me while I was folding polos one day. He was much shorter than me but seemed to be cool so I gave him my number (I'm so easy, I know. I'm working on it). In the 4 hours between meeting him and the end of my shift, I'd acquired 2 missed calls and 5 text messages from him on my Samsung flip phone. I immediately went into "suffocation mode" which involved me ignoring all communication and hiding behind fixtures anytime he came into the store from that point on. I worked there until 2008. That's a lot of hiding.

In the summer of 2009 I started working at Victoria's Secret in the same mall. Two months after starting, I came into work one day to see STALKER JOHN talking to my manager about working there. After he left (and I climbed out from behind a table of panties) I told my boss not to hire him because he was cray. She told me she'd already hired him and that we would be working in the stockroom together. AHHHHHH!!!! Fortunately I was able to use us working together to my advantage--he had connections with employees of The Pretzel Twister and would bring me a free pretzel every time we worked together. Take notes, ladies. This is how it's done.

My current stalker is a man who I affectionately refer to as Mr. Before & After (details on how he got this nickname in an upcoming post). Mr. B&A is 29, attractive, employed with a great job, and yet he can't get enough of me. Every time he comes to North Carolina he hits me up and wants to "hang out", a.k.a. dick me down. I always--yes, always!--turn him down but he aggressively pursues me and won't take no for an answer. Every few hours I get a "what's up" text and when I ignore those he says "I'm coming to see you", even though I've never once told him where I live. Scary, right? Now that I'm typing this I realize that maybe he's not a stalker because he's never actually found me; maybe he's just obsessed with me. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Tonight, We Are Young

Back in the day (2007-2012), I was fun. I went out at least two nights a week with friends to a party, club, bar, or even just another apartment for a wine night. Staying in on a Friday night was only an option if I hadn't fully recovered from Thursday night, but 9 times out of 10 I was good to go. I loved getting all dressed up and going out, and had no problem sacrificing studying to do so.

Since graduating in May, however, I have turned into a complete and total homebody. And the worst part is, I don't hate it.

As you know, this year my birthday fell in the middle of the week. Usually that would mean going out the weekend before or after. The weekend before consisted of me going to dinner and passing out before midnight after sushi, a beer, and a glass of wine. The weekend after is now... and I am currently sitting on my couch in sweatpants, no bra, and a UGA t-shirt I won at a raffle. Sexy, I know. Fortunately I've got my friend Bella Swan and the first Twilight movie to keep me entertained. Last night was even more wild: I watched a Say Yes to the Dress marathon before passing out and sleeping for 14 hours straight. Thug life.

I never knew how much working a 9-5 would change me, but it has shifted my weekend (and weekday) priorities completely. Sunday-Thursday I have to be in bed before 10 or else I get to work and fall asleep at my desk (this has happened more times than you would believe). Friday-Saturday I'm so beat from the week that I have no desire to go out, and what's great/terrible about it is that all of my friends feel the same way so they don't want to go out either.

Something's gotta give though--I don't want to wake up at 30 surrounded by cats and empty wine bottles, wishing I'd taken better advantage of my 20s. More importantly, how on earth am I supposed to meet my husband if I never go out?! Unless he's a Jehovah Witness or my maintenance man, I can't expect him to come to me. I need to put on my party panties and go out to explore Charlotte and meet new people, and I will... next weekend, of course.