Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.

9.23.2005

Fuck.

Fucking fuckety fuck, even.

Y'know what guys? I don't fucking get you. I don't. Seriously. And when I say "guys" I mean those of you out there with penises. Not the general "you guys" that would include those of us with internal plumbing. Dudes, as it were.

I consider myself to be reasonably intelligent, or at the least, besting a labrador on a pretty good day, and I just can't fucking get it. I try. I really do. Shit. I started watching football so I would have something to talk about with a guy I had a crush on. Ended up loving the damn game. Bonus. I try to be approachable. I am no Kate Moss, but I'm at least on the lighterer side of Rosie O'Donnell, I think.

I like beer. From a bottle. I eschew little froofy girlie drinks. I have boobs. I know how to use them. I can cook and sew, and do lots of girly things, but I will watch sports, and talk smack, and laugh at dick jokes (because c'mon, who doesn't love a good "vein hoagie" crack?) I care about what I look like, but am pretty fucking low maintenance. And someday? I'm going to make someone a fucking AWESOME wife. But that day? Isn't going to be tomorrow, and I don't have my man-trappin' boots on. I want to go out. On a date. Where there's a modicum of effort. (I wore socks tonight people. And not only did they go with my shoes, but they coordinated with my shirt. And I wore mascara. I did not, apparently, merit a collared shirt, or even one without pictures on it.)

Fuck. I mean. What do you guys WANT? Honestly. Fill me in. Because short of turning into a double-jointed 19 year old trapeze artist... I'm all ears. It's not even like I want to trap all of you into some big fucking commitment, but a goodnight hug wouldn't be awful, or a "How you doin'?" , or to be viewed as someone other than a sibling, or "one of the guys". I'm really damned perplexed, and I just don't get it. And right now it's really, really pissing me off. Christ on a pogo stick, what is wrong with me?

And yes, I'm sure I'll regret this post in the morning, but what the fuck. It's my damn blog.

2 Comments:

Blogger Steph said...

saucykins. my little sister. my love bucket.

guys. are. idiots.

i know i don't have to point this out to you, but guys have NO idea what they want. hence, we fabulous women have NO idea what they want or how to handle them. sounds to me like YOU did everything you were supossed to do. nice touch with the socks! i know you looked HOT. as for him and his stupid shirt. wtf? would it have killed him to put a little effort in it? christ on a cracker! perhaps he's socially retarded, hence his singledom? the last chick obviously didn't teach him how to dress to impress. maybe he didn't think it was a date? i mean, he didn't pick you up did he? that's usu how guys (in my experience) refer to it as a date. i think the same thing. tho, we as chicks tend to over think this shit and HOPE it's a date. i wouldn't give up on him just yet. you've talked about this guy for YEARS. give it another shot and ask him to pick you up. that way it's a bit more defined and most likely it will end with some much deserved smoochin'.


btw, i still think you're HOT.

4:12 AM  
Blogger Special Sauce said...

Thanks Stephee. It wasn't just last night- it was a culmination of things. You're probably right though, it was more of a hang-out, not a datey-mcdate. Which is fine.

I'm just frustrated because... well, I'll explain that in an email, yo.

5:50 AM  

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