Well, ladies and gentlemen, the impossible has happened: Katie Holmes has managed to break free from Tom Cruise. Wait, no, that's not what I meant. What I meant to say is: I'm in love. Yes, in love. With a man. Not a battery-operated device and not my Taylor Lautner cardboard cut-out. (You see, I love my Taylor Lautner cardboard cut-out but I'm not IN love with my Taylor Lautner cardboard cut-out. Well, anymore.) I know what most of you are thinking: what poor bastard would put up with you long enough to weasel his way into your cold, dead heart. I asked myself the same thing, but apparently I can charm a man long enough to fool him into thinking he's in love with me. And by "charm," of course, I mean "use my giant rack."
It is my alcohol tolerance and drunken ability to belch the alphabet that draws most men in. If history has taught us anything, by the time this article goes to press (meaning Court, my editor, becomes conscious enough from his alcohol-induced haze to hit the "submit" button on his computer) my relationship will already have ended. But it's been a good ride while it's lasted.
Who is this fellow whom I've lured in under the false notion that I'm not crazy, you ask? We'll call him Matthew (because that is his name). Matthew and I met over a can of paste and a shitty self-portrait made entirely out of sparkles and macaroni. Oh, I should probably mention that Matthew and I have known each other since we were in kindergarten. That has nothing to do with the paste/macaroni comment as that was last week, I just thought you should know. We both grew up in the small town of Loveland, Ohio. (I know, Loveland. Land of love. Me being in love. If this column gets anymore cliché and cheesy, I'm going to vomit all over my keyboard.)
As the years went by, elementary school turned into middle school, which turned into high school, and adolescent politics ran their course. We began running in the stereotypical different social circles that make up those teen years; you know, the nerds, the jocks, the loners. At least, I think those were the social circles. Everything I know about high school I learned from watching Freddie Prinze Jr. movies, since I was too busy skipping class and hanging out in the library to actually partake in the high school experience. Basically, I was a dork and he was not (he argues this fact, but I think my braces/glasses combo and Pacific Sunwear wardrobe speak for themselves).
It wasn't until last fall that we reconnected, via Facebook. (Once again, Mark Zuckerberg, well played.) He saw that I had moved out to California, where he too had moved, and wanted to say hi to a familiar face. I'm sure it also helped that this was my profile picture at the time:
What guy could resist a lady classy enough to double fist Miller Lite with such enthusiasm? After all, it is my alcohol tolerance and drunken ability to belch the alphabet that draws most men in. We talked back and forth for months, but I wasn't really sure where it was all going to go. I knew he was a keeper, though, when he stuck around long enough to witness the bird nest hair and smeared eye makeup the morning after our first night together…AND he made me bacon. It couldn't be anything but love.
So now you're probably asking yourselves how all this will affect me and my writing? (And by "this" I mean "sex on a regular basis.") Don't fear, dear readers, I'm sure my loud, obnoxious opinions will scare him off soon enough and I'll be back to the bitter, cruel man-hating female columnist you've all grown to hate/love/send creepy pictures of your penis to before you know it.