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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“Dear Diary” (Paul Ryan Chronicles)

“It’s a very good start. It’s actually an excellent start,” Ryan said of the bill, known as the American Health Care Act.

The Washington Post

March 15

4pm

Dear Diary,

Hello. This is Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House. And Man of Chloe’s House, if you know what I mean 😉 I’m so freaked out right now. According to The Washington Post, I’m fucking drowning. Like, they keep saying the words, “Ryan urged the senators.” As if I’m their whore. And I get that I sound like an idiot every time I say, “TRILLION DOLLAR TAX CUT” but really. Who are we kidding. It’s super true.

Chloe is not buying it. She’s bitching about a bunch of small things. Like ‘senior healthcare’ and I even think she muttered, “John McCain could do it better,” as we went to bed last night.

7pm

Diary,

Chloe here.

See what I mean. Under that fabulous widows peak is the brain of a squirrel. He is so out of my league.

Paul Ryan, you sexy beast

Trigger warning: an ode to a fascist Repubican I love to hate.

#SavePaulRyan #dumptrump

January 26th, 2017

4:15pm

Hey Diary, it’s Chloe the homebreaker again.

I’m getting fucking sick of this bull, i.e. Trumpie and PenCity trying to run away with my man. What slots. Yeah, I said it. Slots!!!!!! Because Trumps a friggin gambling Queen, and I can’t have more babies running around my house. I got two kids and a Speaker of the house that can’t breast feed because “It’s a woman’s job.”

7:10pm

Wine intake: 2 cabernets

Weight: 11o

Belly fat:12 lbs

And that’s just me, not the Speaker of the House.

9pm

Paulie is just so tired that he asked our atheist black neighbor to rpaul-ryan-somberaise our children. Not that that isn’t a little sweet because it was Black History Month but isn’t that the definition of racism?

February 28th

4am

It’s the big day. Trump will make his ‘speech’. Behind Trump’s back, I call him “Don’t ask, Don’t Tell” ).

Not sure how to handle it, my boo drank 2 and a half Ensures today. Not my recommendation. But he handled it well! And he was so cute with that–I-will-tolerate -you and that widow’s peak and that milky face that screamed “I am not a cheeto”.

giphy


March 1st

I’m having my baby tomorrow. I’m super scared but can’t wait to see her face. Paul Ryan got so hysterical that he bought a Mom car–a minivan. I tried to tell him he was wearing himself out. “Chloe, if I don’t do this now, I won’t have the energy or nerve to replace and repeal Obama-Care.” He told me once he secretly didn’t care about the issue, but he was giving birth. I don’t hold it against him. 😉

But that shiny minivan…That thing means we’re that family. Instead of a mom and a dad and two kids…now we have a minivan.

The Itsy Bitsy Suicide (Long Poem) Pt. I

When my grandmother abandoned me
on a Friday night, I was watching
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

I was on the couch, the small loveseat my father
bought when he moved to Fishers–
It was our weekend together.
Friday, August 20th
2009.
I thought, I haven’t heard from her in awhile. I’ll
call
tomorrow.

My father, never one to push
me, shook me awake that night. Whispered.
Cried with me as he said she had a heart attack.
Her legs over the side of the bed. Small, fat body motionless.
God, I cried. Like my heart had burst. I had put all my dreams
into her, like she was my Easter Basket.

I remember
her touching my hair one Easter, saying
how thick and beautiful it was.

Right now, I can’t explain it. The anger and pain
for a woman I knew only five or so years. Mother loves to
say how terrible she was, how crazy, how…
the list goes on.
I want to forget the list. Tell me something good.
Tell me
tell me that time she made you tea, sewed your wedding dress.
Remember the soccer game, when I made brownies
and she was diabetic but
ate them anyway? Remember when we went to
Florida
Grandpa couldn’t drive well
so she had to? Remember when
on September 26th, 2007 I got
my period, and later you, me, and her
went to Target, bought a 7 dollar t-shirt?

I accidentally put the cardboard applicator in,
and we laughed, like you expect
the Golden Girls to
laugh. With their
bosoms, with their
shiny hair.