Father Abraham

This weekend was CIAA weekend in Charlotte, a.k.a. a huge party weekend that brings together a bunch of black people and celebrities from all over the East Coast for the big CIAA basketball tournament. No one actually goes to/cares about the games but rather uses this tournament as an excuse to party.

Friday night I went to this party called "Grits & Biscuits" and was disappointed to find out that they served neither grits nor biscuits there. Someone described the Grits & Biscuits party as "a party where black people with jobs dance like black people without them" which was hilarious and fitting. I came with a group of guys but we got separated a few minutes after arriving to the club. I spent a good ten minutes looking for them but to no avail. Finally, I stopped looking and just stood in a corner, sipping my Red Bull and vodka and trying to look cool even though I was alone. And then I found HIM.

HIM was a white guy--the only white guy in the club. Since he was white I knew he felt out of place and would welcome a hot black girl talking to him. Jackpot. He looked a lot like Macklemore, was 36, and had two Masters degrees (win!) We chatted for awhile but no real sparks flew so I ditched him* and went to find my friends. The rest of the night was fun but uneventful. Unfortunately, we had the HARDEST time finding a cab to take us home so I ended up waiting outside on a curb in 25 degree weather until 3:45 a.m. Not gonna lie, I had a long internal debate about weather I should flash an areola or two to get a ride home. While sitting on the curb a guy yelled out at me "Hey I know you! You work at Chili's!" Long, deep sigh.

Saturday night we went to a club called Phoenix which I've been dying to go to for months. This club was unlike any club I'd ever been to: three stories, multiple DJs, bathrooms and bars popping up everywhere you looked... it was crazy. I felt like I was partying at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, when I got there they were playing reggae music and I HATE reggae. Hate it. They played a reggae version of "Father Abraham" which was honestly the most interesting compilation I've ever heard. I literally stopped and was like, "what the hell... they're really playing Father Abraham in the club". About 30 minutes later, a guy approached me, told me I was beautiful, blah blah, and asked me my name. I gave him my real name (I love my name too much to make up a fake club alias) and asked him for his.

HIS NAME WAS ABRAHAM. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

I died laughing the irony (note: I am not actually sure this constitutes as ironic. Where is Alanis when you need her?) and we ended up exchanging numbers. I've been screening his calls ever since though (can you blame me? His name was ABRAHAM). I met another guy named Tron but didn't even bother with the number exchange because his name was Tron. So that's that.

Solid weekend overall. I got whiplash from a guy swinging his dreads in my face Saturday night and almost died of hypothermia Friday night but what can you do. It felt good to go out and meet people and I can't wait to do it again soon!



*Actually he ditched me. Whatever.

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.

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.