Ok. So I may or may not have entitled my blog post ‘The Big O’ in the hopes that unsuspecting Oprah Winfrey fans would google stalk her and stumble upon this little tumblr. So Oprah fans, welcome, today we are talking about something that makes you scream like tom cruise on a beige couch back when he was still pretending to be into women, my little friend - the orgasm. If you’ve stopped reading, I feel bad for you. If you’ve continued to read, I feel worse. Listen, I’d rather have an orgasm than talk to you about it too but this is 2012 and I’m just trying to keep Kinsey’s dying memory alive. So here I go…
Last week a girlfriend of mine timidly admitted to me that she hasn’t had an orgasm in like, ever… Okay, that’s not true (don’t worry if it is) but the fact is that she could count how many times she’d seen that beautiful white light on both hands - NO TOES REQUIRED. And that’s sad. What was more disturbing was the fact that I said ‘welcome to my life’ and she acted like it was the craziest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. It was right then and there, in the middle of a crowded restaurant like Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, that I realized how foolish we all are. There is a complete disconnect between what actually happens to chicks in bed, what we want guys to think happens to us in bed, and what we’ve inevitably made other girls think happens to us in bed. Thanks to the lies we all tell our friends to sound like sexual P.I.M.P’s we’ve created a world where every guy thinks he just made his girl orgasm (twice) and she thinks OMGWHATISWRONGWITHME when she doesn’t even come close. And that ain’t cool.
First of all, I think we need to have an open conversation about the fact that as a chick you shouldn’t feel bad if you don’t reach the big O; 99% of the time your lady friends aren’t either. That being said, you dudes need to also realize that it can still feel really good even if we don’t finish. When I say this I usually don’t mean it but this time it’s true – it’s not you, it’s me. As women we don’t have the same ability to orgasm on command or finish in 3 seconds if we need to. We take time, our stupid emotions apparently factor in, and when all is said and done sometimes we just literally can’t do it. And that has led us to a dark and scary place where we’ve decided to fake it ‘til we make it.
I actually didn’t really understand this concept until people started calling me Sasha Grey (one of those people was a professor and yeah, it made me feel weird inside, but that’s not the point). The point is, if there’s one thing I learned after googling this mysterious sexual creature (AKA kind-of gross porn star), it’s that orgasms are really really easy to fake. In fact, I’m not even going to go into how to fake an orgasm because that’d be like teaching all the ladies reading this how to ride a fucking bike. Easy to learn, impossible to forget. The trouble is that now we’ve have gotten into such a stigma of Oooh-ing and ahh-ing that when we don’t guys go from rock hard penis to floppy frank in a matter of seconds. It’s a boner killer when a chick isn’t making noise (and lets be honest no one wants to bone to the awkward squeaking of a headboard and cheap mattress, and don’t EVEN get me started on itunes sex playlists…amateurs). So what’s a girl to do?
I say we start a revolution (and by ‘we’ I’m pretty sure I’ll just be referencing myself) but I think as women (and men) we’re doing a disservice to ourselves and the hot person we’re banging if we pretend it’s the best thing since sliced bread when it’s not. First of all, that is confusing as fuck and you have now given someone with the sexual rhythm of a monkey the confidence to try to fuck Jenna Jameson. Second of all, faking it means that all of the good moves are getting the same reaction as the bad ones. Now they don’t know whether doggy style was the best we’ve ever had or a pain in the ass (debatable whether that pun is intended, don’t know what you kinky ones are into). I am tired of being a liar because I feel like it’s going to hurt your feelings. MAN UP. If I am not moaning than make it your business to make sure I start. This is real life, not make believe porn land, and in real life we work for what we want. So next time I bang one of you I fully expect you to go harder, better, faster, stronger.
That being said, even then it might not work. And that’s okay. Most men believe that the swift stroke of their pinky fingers can send us into a tizzy. But let’s be honest, there are times when even our own fingers don’t do the trick. Tell the truth and let your guy know that, while it feels like sunshine and magical rainbows, sometimes it’s just not going to happen for you. If he’s confident in his sexual abilities and cool with his manhood he’ll be understanding - and then spend the next 20 minutes going down on you trying to convince you HE’S DIFFERENT.
If he’s not cool or understanding then tell him to go fuck himself. Literally.
Apparently over the last month or so my friends have been drinking some fucked up relationship kool aid that skyrockets them from single sally to wifed up biddy in 3.2 seconds. Unfortunately, no one passed me this delicious poison, so here I am - just one lone ranger.
As a human being, and I bet some other mammals feel this way, it is the bees knees (maybe the fact that I still use that term is partially to blame for my singleness?) when you and all your friends are single. Need a wingman? Gottem. Need a fat friend to make you look and feel awesome? Gottem. Need a condom? Definitely gottem. Going out with a bunch of drunk single assholes allows you to do literally whatever you want and not feel bad about it the next day. I’ve had one too many DFMO (dance floor make outs, just learned that today) but none of my friends could make fun of me because half of them have actually rounded third base on the dance floor (they’re my friends so I can’t judge them… however, you can feel free to).
But when your friends drop off like flies, and become obsessed with some guy who is 100 percent NOT good enough for them, you’re left wondering if she went partially blind in both eyes or if she lost all understanding of what a funny joke is. For some reason summer brings out a slight desperation, people looking for flings and hot romance, I don’t fucking know. What I do know is that so many of us start to date people we would never actually consider - or even like as a person - for some mysterious and confusing reason. As soon as they link up with this sucktastic person they “magically” forget about all the joys of being single. About how awesome it was to make out with strangers and vomit in line for the bar bathroom. And it’s a shame. I just want to shake them, or tag them in old facebook albums of them with fire shots and muscular guidos that they regretted the next morning, anything to refresh their memories and remind them of the GOOD TIMES.
Sure, a boyfriend is great. Someone to constantly bitch to and/or at, who will have sex with you even when you just ran 3 miles in 90 degree heat and refuse to shower first, and who will buy you stuff just because he feels he has to. These are all great qualities that sometimes convince me that relationships are cool, but when push comes to shove I realize I have MY ENTIRE LIFE to get saggy boobs and bags under my eyes and have to force someone to pretend to enjoy having sex with me. The average life expectancy is like 100 now and I’m only 22; and I ask you - who the fuck wants to spend 78 years strapped to some dude who probably cant keep it up?
I just don’t understand why all of these cool girls (and this goes for you awesome dudes too) are wasting their greatness on one person. In fact, I think it’s pretty fucking selfish. As a young person you need to test the waters, figure out what you like, make some fucking mistakes. The next time I hear anyone saying ‘yes’ it better be to another round of whiskey shots and one night stands and never to “are we official” or “will you marry me.”
NOTE: If the dude/chick is an actual keeper please disregard this entire post. True love man, can’t even hate on it.
The other night me and my friend were debating how she’s been able to string along a dude (we’ll call him NoSwag) for the last SEVEN months without even having to touch his dick. I mean, did this dude have a mental handicap or was he too far gone in his love for my friend to even try to cater to the little man dangling between his legs? I guess it didn’t matter. What mattered is that Marcia and Greg Brady had more sexual chemistry in that weird Brady Bunch movie than these two could ever dream of having. And that’s just wrong.
We hypothesized every reason why NoSwag would have stuck around for so long. Maybe he couldnt get it up, maybe he was masking his homosexuality by filling his time with awkward day-dates, or maybe he just likes spending quality time with her (probably not). So while were sitting on the couch stuffing our faces with 7 dollar froyos, contemplating NoSwag and our recent string of men, our other drunk girlfriend invited herself over. I was terrified. I mean, the only thing worse than being around drunk people when you’re dead sober and fatting out on the couch is when you’re blackouted drunk and vomiting on yourself on the couch. And even then it’s a close call; but thats not the point. The point is that sometimes drunk assholes say things that are really smart. In a brief moment of intoxicated brilliance my wasted friend said what may have been the most intelligent thing she’s ever thought; perhaps NoSwag was sticking around because guys have this warped sense of reality where they think that girls take it slow when they really like a guy.
I mean bravo to them for staying awake long enough during Ms. Congeniality to learn this non-fact, but unless they’re trying to wife up a debutant in south carolina I’m fairly certain this logic is older than my great-grandma. Not only is this the 21st century, but this is new york fucking city and good luck finding a virgin anywhere in the tri-state area. The fact that I can count how many people I’ve slept with on one hand practically makes me a virgin in this town, and anyone who knows me has called me a prude once or twice. Nearly every girl I know is hard pressed to remember the name of every Joe Schmoe she’s slept with, and HBO’s new show made an std sound like a battle scar that all adventurous NY woman are bound to bare.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying new york girls are slutty or easy - I mean there are 8 million people in this fucking city and I’ll speak for most women when I say that I’m lucky if I find 1 in 500,000 men attractive/funny enough to even let him buy me a drink. That’s why, when that 2 in a million kind of guy comes around no girl in their right mind is going to wait 7 goddamn months to jump their bones; or at least check out what he’s packing.
And it’s sad. Why don’t guys get this? I know you always want what you can’t have but when your balls are at the point of permanently turning blue and you are sleeping next to a girl NOT TOUCHING HER or even getting a quick makeout session in, I’d say it’s time to re-evaluate the situation. Girls are assholes, we want guys to swoon over us and take us out and make us feel like we are the only girl in the world (Rihanna taught us that). Girls do NOT want to have an awkward conversation where we tell you that the thought of your penis in or around our mouth actually skeeves us out and the prospect of having to ‘learn’ to like you makes our skin crawl. I’d rather claw my eyes out before having that conversation.
The best way to tell if a girl is interested in you is to leave her the fuck alone. If she comes back trying to make plans with you AND actually follows through then you know she genuinely wants to date you. Or at least see you naked. But if a chick never actually meets up with you, initiates plans, or reaches out to stroke your little guy then MOVE ON. Even if she is into you - who wants a chick who can go almost a year without any nookie? If that’s not a red-flag for what you’d be in store for if you actually married her then I don’t know what is. Once a prude, always a prude. Trust me.
There are a few women I’d pretend to be a lesbian for and that small list includes Megan Fox, Olivia Wilde, and Zooey Deschanel. So when I found out that a dude I used to hook up with in December was now sleeping with a girl who looked like the futuristic love child of all three you can understand how I was not amused. When you break up with someone you want them to date down. You want her to be one Cheeto away from blowing up. Or she smells. Or she is missing a finger. You never want her to be hot. Even if she is dumb and uninteresting and all of his friends hate her. She is still prettier than you and that’s all you’ll care about when you’re 26 minutes in to stalking his Facebook. Clearly the only solution is to date someone hotter than him; but that’s not always an option so here are some tips in case you are stumped:
Well, shit. I’ve had this blog post drafted for two months and I couldn’t figure out what to tell you to do because I’m a superficial bitch and the thought of someone being better looking than me just crushes the soul. But, like the Hess truck, I’m back and better than ever so here’s what I’d do:
- Drink copious amounts of alcohol. This way ALL the guys at the bar look hotter than your ex. Plus all of these blurry pictures that your friend is taking and uploading to Facebook make it hard to tell that you’re not as pretty as New Slut.
- Go to awesome concerts. Instead of sitting there thinking about his new chick trying out her Kama sutra book with your ex, you’re busy day-drinking at a bomb ass music festival dancing to ‘Moves Like Jagger’ and maybe even banging him. Hey, he might be 100 years old but he’s still Mick-fucking-Jagger and THAT IS COOL.
- Travel. Everywhere. There is no girl hotter than Turks and Caicos in July and I’m pretty sure that’s a fact. While you’re making memories in a bikini she’s making him a sandwich in the kitchen. #sorrynotsorry
- Have hot steamy hook-ups with the least douchiest, but most attractive, men you can find. Try college boys. Try sexy bartenders. Try Foreigners. Try them all, because the one thing your ex can’t do (unless he’s a cheating a-hole, and that’s gross enough to make you not care how hot his new chick is) is have sexual encounters of the fleeting kind. While he’s wifed up having plain, boring missionary sex (if he’s lucky) you are busy LIVING IT UP and if that’s not the ultimate win then I don’t know what is.
We only live once and as much as it sucks to see someone you used to date dating someone who makes you want to put a bag over your face, just remember that you now have the freedom to do way cooler shit. Plus he couldn’t last that long in bed and chances are they’ll break up in 6 months. 8, tops.
Recently, some people have been saying that my life is like a movie. But I disagree - if this is a movie where is my prince charming and my awesome wind-blown hair and my goddamn perfect wardrobe? No, my life is not a movie. I mean, sure I have guys that sext me at 7am on a Tuesday, “just jerking off thinking about you, thought I’d say hi” (what a charmer), and friends who interview famous people, and have orthodontic issues whilst giving blow jobs, and who jet off with strangers to Chicago at 5am after a night of clubbing. In fact, all of those things happened THIS WEEK. My life is weird and interesting and a cluster fuck of things that I don’t even know how to describe, but amongst all of this confusion the one thing I do know is that my life is NOT a movie.
Fuck movies. And I’m not just talking every Meg Ryan Rom-Com or Rachel McAdams adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel. I’m talking every fucking movie. Movies teach people that they can leave you, cheat, lie, trick you, take advantage of you, and make you a non priority and within an hour and twenty-seven minutes make you forget about all of that bullshit and fall in love with them. I practically vomit every time. Unless I’m PMSing, then I cry like a little bitch. But that’s not relevant.
Movies convince us that ridiculous events and situations are the norm. You think any rational person with a 4th grade math education would tell you that out of the billions of people in this world you are only capable of falling in love with ONE of them? My 5 yr old niece cant even add 2 + 2 but she knows that’s definitely not fucking right. Fate and “the one” are MADE UP by the motion picture industry. You can thank fucking Siskel and his pal Ebert (RIP one of you) for those 7 months you wasted eating gallons of Ben & Jerry’s and sobbing that you’ve lost your “soul mate.” Seriously, how there isn’t a class action lawsuit against these film-making assholes (sorry to literally ALL my friends who happen to be in the media/film business) is beyond me. But that’s not the point; the point is that movies make every normal goddamn relationship seem plain, uneventful, and mundane. If we’re not fighting THIS MUST NOT BE LOVE. Uhhh… last I checked love is supposed to be fun and make you feel great inside, not make you want to beat the shit out of your significant other and then go lock yourself in your room and put on Adele’s 21 for 7 hours straight.
And movies don’t just teach us that love should be tough, and hurt, and be a constant struggle. They also teach us ladies that its okay to be crazy in love. Emphasis on the crazy. Dude isn’t texting you? That’s cool. Grab a boom box and sit outside his house all night. That’s not weird and stalkerish. Or how about you go to his wedding and then try to convince him he shouldn’t get married to his fiance but should marry you instead. Not selfish at all, but instead SUPER romantic. Well thank you, Julia Roberts, for making me think that I can be an LA prostitute, a selfish best friend, even a goddamn runaway bride and Richard Gere will still love me. Because that is real life… right?
Go fuck yourself.
Recently (as in, 3 minutes ago) I received a disturbing email chain with a spreadsheet that some tool bag made attached to it. Opened up the attachment and BOOM - a list of the chicks he’d scoped out and hoped to date on match.com. HOLY HELL. Not only did I immediately laugh out loud that people like this exist, but I seriously questioned if I’d ever be able to find a normal, non-creepy, non-crazy man. While that latter part is still up in the air, the part that actually bothered me the most was the fact that this guy is going to get laughed at, become internet famous for a few hours on reddit, and then go back to trolling for chicks online. He’s going to be lurking out there like a child predator in an ice cream truck and one poor woman will actually END UP WITH HIM.
If it was a woman who wrote – and SENT – this outrageous spreadsheet she’d be locked up in a padded white-walled room or cast out of society destined to become a nun and dust the cobwebs off of her vagina for the rest of her life. It’s a fact that a man and a woman can do the same crazy act/say the same dumb comment and a woman is perceived as a lunatic while the dude is just…a dude. A guy calls me 3 times and it’s all “wow he really wants to get laid tonight”, while I call a guy 3 times and it’s all “let me get a restraining order cause this bitch CRAY”. And that ain’t right.
As females we feed into this “crazy girl” stereotype too much. We want to ‘play it cool,’ ‘don’t freak out,’ ‘just ignore him til he talks to you first.’ UM, NO? We’re quick to judge the shit out of other girls who call out a guy, speak their mind, and yeah – text/call/email one too many times. But sometimes it’s necessary – not crazy. If a guy makes plans with you do NOT let him blow you off, wait until he reaches out to you, and then not bring up that he ditched you just so you don’t seem like a stalker. You had plans girl, stand your ground. Guys get away with murder cause so many ladies out there try so hard (too hard) to be a “cool girl”. A “cool girl” is saying what the fuck is up and not letting some douche bag with a tiny penis do whatever the fuck he wants.
And dudes – you are not exempt from this conversation either. Not only do you get away with the most ridiculous shit because some chick doesn’t want you to stop occasionally complimenting her, but you also get to do and say crazy shit and no one bats an eye. Spreadsheet guy isn’t the first or last person to do something hilariously depressing and sad and get caught. You all have your own ‘spreadsheets’ too. You texted me 57 times drunk one night. You yelled at me because you saw I was on facebook but didn’t message you back right away. You don’t understand why I can’t drop my plans at 8p on a Saturday to come meet you. THESE are crazy things. But no girl will ever say that (in fact she probably will come meet you and then give you a BJ in the back of a cab because some girls are just that desperate for a free meal and a fake boyfriend for a night).
Basically, I’m trying to say that everyone has their fucking weird shit. Some of us vocalize it and others suppress it (pussayzzzzz) but BE EASY. When you call a chick crazy for double texting you, I want you to remember that the person who MADE A SPREADSHEET ABOUT HIS VIRTUAL RELATIONSHIPS had a penis, not a vagina.
PS. If you want to see the original email chain HIT ME UP (cause its awesome and hilarious).
LISTEN UP. And for the love of god please forward this along to all of your friends. And their friends. And maybe even their dads. I could write an entire novel about things guys should never do when trying to seduce a lady, but I’ve narrowed it down to the ones that have pissed me off the most lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to help you help yourselves because I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to at least be able to be tricked into thinking I want to have sex with you.
First of all, never use an emoticon when texting me. I am not trying to date my best friend from middle school. She was weird and had braces and I’m pretty sure she thought she was in an actual relationship with her Leonardo DiCaprio poster. The fact that you think its okay to do this automatically sends up a huge red flag and unless you’re incredibly hot (you’re not) my legs are instantly and forever shut. Plus, when you text me a smiley face it reminds me of my mom learning what the internet was and if that’s not an instant mood killer then I don’t know what is.
Second of all, don’t tell me about how fucking swagtastic you are. The minute you tell me that you “spit the ill game” is the same minute the game is OVER. You lose. No person with actual swag will announce that he can get any chick in the bar. No one believes you and you don’t have the jawbone or physique to back it up. You’re so cocky it’s starting to piss me off and if I was going to sleep with you in a few weeks it’s now turned into a few months. Challenge: Accepted. Plus, on the off chance that you are able to trick a girl with a slight mental handicap to go home with you, she’ll instantly be thrown off when you start telling stories about the other girls you’ve slayed and all the weird shit they did in bed. No one wants to be the next story you tell at your biweekly circle jerks with your friends who have equally as little game as you. I’m instantly envisioning you making up a scenario where I went back home with you, put on a mask, and started calling your dick ‘Zorro’. It’s horrifying.
Third, and maybe most importantly, do NOT quadruple text me. And don’t text me first. And definitely don’t tell me what the fuck you did today. Or how work is. I do not care, and the fact that you think I might is disturbing. Also disturbing is the fact that you have enough free time to text me a novel about what you ate for lunch AND that you spent that time virtually communicating with me and not having a real life in the real world.
If you want to convince a girl that you are even a little bit cool then be a huge asshole, give her as little attention as you can muster, and only give her compliments followed by an insult. If that doesn’t work, nothing will. Invest in a vat of Vaseline and some Kleenex and call it a night.
6 REASONS I’M INTO ‘GIRLS’
1. The protagonist is
FAT 13 pounds overweight. FINALLY. I always knew there were unattractive girls out there, I just didn’t know you could put them on TV. I mean, I applaud HBO, I feel like they tried to do this with Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City but failed miserably. Sure, that weird mole on her chin had me saying ‘moley, moley, moley’ in my worst Austin Powers accent and wishing I’d brought guacamole as my TV snack, but if you squinted your eyes and stood a few feet from the TV you could still kind of pretend she was attractive. Not with this girl. It’s awesome.
2. They make me realize that I’m not the only one that NY spits in the face of when I’m struggling to make it out there in this big bad world. The chick in ‘Girls’ doesn’t live in a rent-stabilized 500 dollar apartment on the upper west side BECAUSE THIS IS REAL LIFE and 500 dollars wont even buy you a sturdy cardboard box and sidewalk space anymore. Instead she’s doing what most of us do (no, she’s not showing her boobs for a quick 5 bucks, and anyway that was one time…) she is asking everyone she knows for help, including her parents. She is willing to sleep on random strangers couches and make out with dudes she doesnt like just to have a roof over her head. And I get that. In fact I don’t even have HBO and if I don’t find a semi-cute guy to pretend to like who’ll let me watch this at his house then I might have to actually splurg on it. Or find it online for free.
3. For once I am not attracted to the male lead. And that’s a blessing because I don’t have enough time to tweet sexual offers to any more famous people in the hopes that they’ll notice me. Fuck that. This guy is a scrawny nerd who I’m pretty sure was in my gender and sexuality class at NYU. For those of us that live in NY we know the truth about the selection of guys, but for the rest of the world it’s a wake up call. Thanks to ‘Girls’ now everyone will know that NY guys are either gay, gross, or metrosexuals that care more about their hair than I do and NONE of them look like the love child of Ryan Gosling and Channing Tatum. And that’s a damn shame.
4. She falls too! I know pretty people have fallen on TV before but this time it’s an unattractive chubby girl which instantly makes it 100 times funnier. Plus this summer I ate it in front of the dude I was hooking up with and ALL of his friends and if she can do it in front of the guy she likes and ALL OF AMERICA then I think I’ll live.
5. She debates whether or not sexual harassment is flattering. ME TOO. And I know some of you are sitting behind your computer judging the shit out of me - but I know you’ve secretly done this too. If Steve, the weird mail room guy who walks by your cube way too many times, winks at you it’s all ‘who is our HR rep and how do I verbalize that he just eye fucked the shit out of me without my consent?’ But when Brad the cute assistant grazes over your ass and smells a clump of your hair its all ‘omg brad likes me! how frowned upon is it to do him in the supply closet?’ I’ll let a hot dude sexually harass me anytime (can someone say COMPLIMENT).
6. ‘Girls’ will make you feel like a porn star in bed. Yeah, I said it. When I watch Sex and the City I feel like my sex cant compare; how do they all bend like that? and why the fuck is she 50 and her boobs look like mine in 7th grade? (except for miranda, her shit was always weird and gross and made me never want to have sex again). But not this show. ‘Girls’ will have you reminiscing about all those awkward times you tried to have sex and he couldn’t keep it up or you flailed on top like a fish dying out of water. It’s endearing and relatable and WHO WOULDN’T WANT TO WATCH UGLY PEOPLE DOING AWKWARD THINGS?
If you want to feel more attractive, richer, and better in bed then please watch the shit out of this show.
If you want to read a proper article about how awesome this show is then check out this post on MTV.com
If you want to take me out on a date, call me (just saying)
Being an intern is hard. I get it. We’ve all been there. You have to do really hard stuff like get coffee, make copies, and occasionally take notes. Sometimes you even get asked to work on a project that actually matters. But here’s the thing – if you ever want to have a real job you have to take all of this bullshit with a grain of salt. Put on your biggest I-have-a-huge-mouth Anne Hathaway ala Devil Wears Prada smile and pretend like you just popped three valium. Hell, buying a few off your depressed roommate might be a solid investment choice if you’re 2 years in at NYU and you’re already hardened so much that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to not be an empty dark soul. While you’re at it, take a few of those adderall you’ve been saving for your chem final – I want you running around here like the fucking energizer bunny asking me if I need anything every 5 minutes. (note: drugs are bad)
As much as you think I’m being an asshole when I tell you these things, I’m not. I’m being selfish. When I get to work in the morning I’m already upset enough that I have to be there so the last thing I want to do is come in and see you sitting there with a puss on your face emailing me that you “have nothing to do” and “do you have anything I can work on.“ UmmmmMmM, NO. Cantchu see I’m trying to sip my coffee in peace? Not only did you just let me know that my job is boring enough for a 20 year old to vocalize, but you also made me remember that the reason you don’t have more work is because you are dumb and I can’t trust you to run copies down to the 5th floor – let alone make a document that my boss is going to see. And when I finally do (stupidly) decide to give you a semi important task, you take 20 fucking years to do it. Congrats, I’m now 100 years old.
If I’m on the phone, do not stand around hovering over my desk staring at me like you’re hungry and I’m a cheeseburger. First of all, you’re making me uncomfortable and I’m trying to pretend you’re not standing there like an idiot. Second of all, I’m about to go all mom on your ass and be REAL sweet to the person I’m talking to, cover the mouth piece, and curse you the fuck out. So instead you should act like the good intern that you aren’t, go back to your desk, and wait for me to be done. At least that way you make me feel like you think my time is precious (even though you don’t). And let’s be honest, you weren’t going to tell me anything important anyway.
So now it’s four hours later and when you ask me again if I have more work for you, it puts me in an awkward position. To avoid letting you know how you make me wonder about the future for my unborn children, and question where all my tax money supporting education is going, I say I have nothing right now, and
don’t want you to touch my work with a ten foot pole, but will try to round up some stuff for you. Do NOT take that as your cue to email me back that you “need to leave early.” THE FUCK YOU THINK I AM? I know it’s dollar beer night at the 13th step and that ‘midterm’ you have to do is actually a gross freshman you’ve been hitting on all semester. You are not fooling anyone.
The worst thing about all of these emails is that you DON’T KNOW HOW TO WRITE THEM. If I email you asking if you’ve finished a project, and you see that my email starts with ‘hey’ and ends with ‘thanks’ then for the love of god COPY ME. If you reply to my emails with ‘fine,’ ‘okay,’ or any other one word answer I WILL dicksmack you. Or get someone else in the office who is more equipped to do it. Didn’t you go to school? Or open up your parents mail? Or even flip through a playboy? There are articles in there. I know you know how to write a full sentence. And if you don’t you should probably get the fuck out of the building and become a permanent member of Occupy Wall Street.
The next time I call you over to my desk it will be to watch me write an email and if you don’t catch on to what I’m not-so-subtly trying to tell you I will give you less work and more hours, sufficiently making you want to rip your own eyes out. If you do catch on, congrats you have a brain. But I still won’t hire you after all the other bullshit you just tried to pull. Good job upping that unemployment rate buddy.
PS. Looking for Spring interns!