Help me, I’m a desperate ho

So I’ve been trying my hardest to get a boyfriend since I started walking. Like, I was accused of stalking Dustin Little in kindergarten by his mother. I take love seriously. And since then, I haven’t had the greatest luck. My shortest relationship was a week because I convinced myself I liked a man that I didn’t find attractive because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And my longest relationship was with a former soldier that I met at work. I was 17, he was 25. And I totally was in love with him. But he was way crazy. Now he’s married and has a kid. It seems everyone is getting married or engaged. So I decided to propel myself into the dark gloom of online dating. I had tried online dating before.I had done Tinder, Match.com, even a Bernie Sanders dating site (I mostly got women that didn’t read my ‘Preferences’ section. And I have been on a ton of dates. Mostly bad. And most of all, I’m kind of tired of being alone.

So I tried Bumble, an app that forces women to make the first move. It’s an interesting concept. The only problem was that no matter how many matches I got, no one was asking me out. In fact, sometimes they never responded. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and actually ask someone out. And he said yes!

Let’s call him George. I like that name. George works at Starbucks. He’s 25 and super cute. After our third date, I was so excited. Mwahahaha. After our fourth date, I was like, “Imma date this fool.” But he didn’t text me afterward. So like a spaz, I ‘casually’ walked into Starbucks today and tried to write my fucking play while glimpsing him through the bookshelf. And that’s where I am. Right now. When I went up for a drink, I tried to engage in conversation like a cool cat.

C: Hey! How are you?

G: Great. Just working.

C: I like your shirt.

G: Thanks.

C: What are you doing after work?

G: Working out then packing.

C: Ah.

G: You work at Roadhouse?

C: Yeah.

G: Cool.

C: …Okay, I will see you later.

 

Can’t you see I am dying slowly, George? A woman has needs. Every time I get close to meeting someone nice and settling down, I get too excited. Like, finally I’ll be able to hold hands with someone on the sidewalk, go to weddings, have huge fights and great make-up sex. And have sex continually with one person is personally the Dream.

And this is why I am a desperate ho. With all of my actions, I beg someone to like me. I like anyone who is nice to me. I know I am desperate because I keep texting first, taking the initiative, etc. I am actually so desperate for love, I dreamt I had sex with my female roommate (let it be known, I have no roommate) and I had to pretend to like the sex because I didn’t want her to leave me. And now I am probably going to stay at this stupid Starbucks for two more hours to see if George will come over after his shift and talk to me. Please help me, world. I’m sick of being a desperate ho. I want to be a badass ho. My 15-year-old friend is ashamed of me.

 

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Better luck next time

Note: this is political satire. paul ryan is, sadly, not cheating on his wife with me.

March 26th

9am

So I’m watching TV in my cute little pajamas, eating ice cream with rum (sorry, mom) and some good ol’ Fox television when some orange bimbo comes on and says that the repeal of Obamacare failed because of Paul!

“Paul Ryan needs to step down as speaker of the House,” Pirro said. “The reason? He failed to deliver the votes on his health care bill. The one trumpeted to repeal and replace Obamacare. The one that he had seven years to work on. The one he hid under lock and key in the basement of Congress. The one that had to be pulled to prevent the embarrassment of not having enough votes to pass.”

Well, you know what, Ms. Pirro? Paul Ryan is an excellent speaker of the House! The reason? He’s a good man and an even better lover. Yes, Obamacare is terrible because it actually helps many people around the United States. Yes, no one should experience that much freedom or get coverage despite previous conditions. No one should feel safe in America. And Paul knows that. So it takes more than 7 years? So what. It took me 22 years to find Paul.

11am

Speaking of freedom, I have nothing to do. I’m terribly lonely. I went to the store one day to buy some chocolate and get some baby food, and I found myself talking to the store clerk for 15 minutes. Paul is rarely home now that Donald is finally being presidential. His wife is supposed to sign the divorce papers soon, though.

Paul Ryan: A Love Story

Prompt:

If Paul Ryan and I got pregnant at the same time, I’m pretty sure we’d be in the same Lamaze class. And then fall in love.

November 8th

2:36am

Hey, Diary. It’s me. Sorry I haven’t written anything recently. Quick update: Got pregnant in April. My baby’s father sells shitty trailer meth in Plainfield, IN. And I had to move to Maryland because that’s where my Dad lives. God.

2:50am

Sorry, pee break.

November 10th

7am

I’m going to Lamaze class. I don’t know why other pregnant people subject themselves to that ‘natural birth’ shit. Like, my future offspring is tiny. Pretty sure it won’t remember the drugs. Only I will, and it will be delightful.

9:35am

I met Paul Ryan there! He is another pregnant person. God, it feels so good to chillax with an older, more mature PP. We just gabbed. Compared bellies. This is his second kid. He showed me pictures.

“I was in labor with Jenny for 12 hours,” he said. “She is just so cute. When her mom and I saw the ultrasound, she was a tiny little thing. Like a bean. So we nicknamed her beanie.”

“Did you plan on eating her?”

He huffed and walked off. He’s probably texting Biden right now complaining about me. Catholic to Catholic bonding.

November 22nd

8pm

I have pre-existing medical conditions. I’m a woman who believes in separation of faith and policy. A public position and opposing personal opinion are okay because not everyone has the same life experience or background.

But for some strange, fucked up reason, I’m falling for Paul Ryan. A pregnant Paul Ryan.

I know, I know. It’s wrong. It’s sooooo wrong. Ryan looks like the devil every time he pops up on C-SPAN. He’s got those cold AF Jack Frost eyes and a widow’s peak that (let me tell you) is not fake. It’s real. Gloriously real.

8:50pm

And he basically would never dream of me, right? At the same time, he’s so pretty.

So pretty.

November 29th

God, sometimes I hate that I’m pregnant. The smug married couples around me say that it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.

“You’re glowing!”
“It’s so miraculous, the gift of life!”
“Childbirth is amazing–so special. No drugs. Don’t do drugs because it causes autism. And not the cute kind of autism that’s barely noticeable. The kind where you spend your whole life in a hospital. Yikes.”

And the worst: “Kids change you. They make you better.”

Am I not good enough already? Do I need to change? I look fantastic except for the bowling ball under my blouse. Long blonde hair down my back. Legs to my neck. And because of lil Kim (nicknamed after Kim Kardashian), my breasts have swelled to the size of melons.

I have a good job. Great friends. I don’t want to change.

 

December 3rd

10:20pm

I regret to say I’ve started sleeping with Paul Ryan.

I can’t help it. His wife is busy working all the time; my baby daddy is off selling drugs on 38th street.

The bedroom thing is pretty great. 😏 It’s nice to sleep next to someone at night. Cuddle. Whisper and laugh. All my ex-boyfriend did was cough a lot afterwards and go into the bathroom for 45 minutes. I still don’t know what he did in there.

If you must know, the sex is a bit like a game of twister. Or jenga. I have 27 extra pounds. Paul has 70. 70 freaking pounds. He’s very sensitive about it. Apparently Bernie Sanders made a joke about his weight gain. I saw the C-Span clip:

Bernie: Are you stressed about the election? You haven’t officially endorsed Donald Trump.

Paul: Mr. Trump and I have very different opinions about public policy. But I’m not stressed.

Bernie: Really? Because the way you’re going at those tacos, it’s like you’re trying to eat all of your problems.

It was kind of funny. But I can’t tell Paul.

December 10th

3pm

Sometimes during the middle of ‘Twister,’ the Speaker of the House mutters, “method of conception.” That’s coo’. Everybody’s got a weird sex thing. But during our first joint climax, when I was closing my eyes in ecstasy, he shouts in my ear, “AYN RAND!”

Who the hell is Ayn Rand? Should I be jealous?

December 25th

11am

Can’t talk much today. In Rockville, MA. I’m waiting for Paul to finish his family Christmas in the city. It’s agonizing, bc he has the nipple cream and I need it.

My father has no concept of personal space. He keeps making me soup and cookies and putting his cat in my lap because it stands on my belly crest to lick my face. It’s gross.

January 12th

Today, Paul Ryan’s terrible wife found out about our intense love affair. She leaves him the day before Paul is supposed to be induced into labor (because he’s stupid and refuses an Epidural). God, what a terrible person.

January 13th

2:04pm

I break into Paul Ryan’s room after his wife abandons her pregnant husband. The doctor says, “Paul has to push but he won’t.”

“It hurts! I can’t do this!” the Speaker of the House screams with his feet in stirrups.

I kneel down and whisper, “I know you despise affordable healthcare, sex ed, abortion rights. But god damnit, Paul. I love you. Even though you’re a Republican. So take the effing epidural.”

2:18pm

In the hospital room. My boyfriend Speaker Paul Ryan is about to give birth.
“Chloe! I can’t take drugs, I have a birth plan!”
“The hell, Paul! Come on. Take the drugs.”
“No.”

2:25pm

“PAUL TAKE YOUR DRUGS OR I WILL SLEEP WITH BARACK!”
He takes the epidural.

January 21st

12:45pm

It has been a blissful week since Paul and I took home our baby. Yes, our baby. His wife has not come back to take custody.

We’ve named him Tucker Putin Ryan. The middle name is my fault. Donald Trump came into the delivery room wielding a Russian transcript, saying he lost a bet. Then Donald Trump cried a lot. All I could hear was blubbering about ‘family values’ and ‘China–chi-na.’

Idk. My due date is next week. Yikes.

 

#paulryan #lovestory #PaulRyanLoveStory

An Ode to Vacuums and Vaginas

It purrs
so loud, going up and down…
cleaning that rug like it’s almost outta style.
Which it is.
Some people don’t have rugs
but when you need ’em, 
you gotta clean ’em.
The latter is self-cleaning, didn’t you know?
Interesting.

It stops sometimes
Stutters
Skips and lurches
like a record player or an old hound.
And you gotta tap it.
“You okay down there, suga?”
It won’t answer, but what did you expect?
Shy creatures, these ones.

It’s stored in closeted sections of the house.
You see one out, you know where you are.
In the poorer area, 
in the understanding part of town.
But it’s an old friend, 
and it is here to stay.