Times I Don’t Want My Boyfriend to See Me
- When I have gotten out of the shower. Sometimes I wish I was a dude just so I could get that many mintues of my life back that I lose while showering as a female. Brb moving to France. Instead of taking a series of fifteen minute showers throughout the week, I like to take 45 minute ones a few (like once) a week. I have one of those as see on TV Turbie Twist hair towels with the little bit of elastic in the back. I tend to pull a Princess Diaries move and leave my pore strip on my nose to the point it feels like paper mache. Not to mention it seems that no matter how I scrub I will never get my mascara off in it’s entirety. It lingers there like my friends at the bar circa closing time who haven’t gotten laid in a while.
- When I drive. At least that’s what I call it. It’s more like I am a Simpson’s Road Rage character transported to the real world who still belives she gets points for running things over. I blame my parents for depriving me of a Barbie Power Wheels Jeep as a child. Hell, they should make those for college kids. Can you imagine driving one of those to the bar? Might have to consistently wear underwear though. Anyway I swear a lot too. So there’s that.
- When I play board games. You play by the rules or I will stuff a pillowcase full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you (thank you, Step Brothers). None of your “oh, well this is how I play.” Did I ask how you play? Of course not, because I don’t give a flying fuck. Disney Monoply and the American Girl Game are not to be taken lightly. This isn’t beer pong with house rules and poorly designed college dorm room posters for “cool” freshman that advertise their drinking. We all do it. Get over yourself and don’t fuck with Felicity. Ginger American Girl doll is the shit.
- When I am shopping. Picture the bloodbath Cornucopia scene of Hunger Games, only instead of camping shit in the middle there are poorly made Forever 21 dresses. Trying on jeans = traumatizing experience that takes years of therapy, crash diets, and mild alcohlism to overcome. Dare he even entertain the idea of playing the dangerous mind game of, “does this make me look fat?” To which the only respectable answer is, no your fat makes you look fat. Half the fun of shopping (jkay the only fun of shopping) is toting around a million bags that say, look at all the cool shit I got that will ruin my credit score before I can legally rent a car. Bitch, you can carry my purse. I mean, sweetheart.