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Sometimes life hands you beautiful beautiful things, and today on the bus I overheard two gangster-looking guys talking about how “middle school was the shit” because handjobs were still exciting.
The moment was still a little bittersweet, because I’m still annoyed no one wants my handjobs anymore. It’s like how we all used to spend a lot of time getting dizzy on purpose, but now it’s like no thanks I know what beer is.
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I crush on people a lot because they vaguely resemble celebrities I have crushes on.
That might make sense for most people, but I realized the kinds of famous guys I’m interested in aren’t famous for their looks and this is a terrible idea.
I realized this when I let a guy who looked like Seth Rogen kiss me at a party. Also, someone who looks like Jemaine Clement is currently piquing my interest and I need to stop this.
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I think people spend an inordinate amount of time and energy on the collection of something called a Seck.
Seck, as in “hold on, will you gimme a Seck” or “I haven’t had Secks in nearly four months.” It must be fun or satisfying somehow to own an amount of Secks, because of when women excitedly recount to other women that they “finally had Secks last night!” I assume something about having Secks must involve using or giving them away, because the dogged pursuit of the Seck often renews immediately after having them.
Despite all the credit orgasming women seem to give him, if there is a god, STDs are pretty good evidence he does’t want us having that much sex.
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ME: Unemployed and thus too broke to date or entertain myself. Thought I was “too good” for FWB during previous period of employment and told him off. Poor foresight. Real friends are all employed and/or I have lied to them about having a job, thus can’t hang out with them during the day. No food allergies, modest DVD collection, Netflix subscription, easygoing personality, hate people who sing unprompted and/or have exciting travel stories.
YOU: Available during business hours. Not averse to pantslessness, spooning, or pantsless spooning. Don’t sing unprompted. Give good back rubs, or are at least open to constructive criticism. Will kill bugs, but let me try first. Creative cook (I have a potato, Top Ramen, some off-brand Pop Tarts and a whole mess of fruit flies… Any ideas?). Not averse to stealing small amounts of roommate’s food. Will allow me to blame a small, victimless crime on you (it’s been a while and roommate is asking questions). Leave when real friends come over and don’t tell them I have an Unemployment Companion. Defend me when roommate makes fun of me for having an Unemployment Companion, and/or being unemployed. Listen patiently when I feel like venting about roommate. Open to physical possibilities (pending chemistry, etc.), but won’t fall in love with roommate like fucking everybody else. Will look up to me and give me the feeling I’ve got something to teach you, like you are in awe of my wisdom and life experience and just want to listen most of the time and let me hold you, but also hold me because I can’t always be everyone’s rock. Previous experience a bonus.
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Guys don’t seem to understand why someone making a kissy-noise from a passing car or saying “what’s uuuup” directly to your butt feels really shitty. Like, it’s a compliment! A stranger just called you sexy! You and your butt can say thanks, or not, and move on with walking around feeling fine (foiiiine). It’s never helped me make my case to try to physical-compliment them into submission, either. Most guys are thrilled and/or tickled to have their junk talked to.
When I get the chance, I assure whoever will listen that it does suck. It’s yicky. I feel simultaneously unsafe and like they managed to take something from me that I didn’t decide to give them (detailed memories of my ass).
But after I get all Preachy McSelfEsteem, I remember that before I heard these things, or when I haven’t heard them in a while, I get all upset. Cat calls really do feel gross, but there’s another part of me that really wants them. When I first heard someone complain about being hollered at and I hadn’t ever been, it became a yardstick of attractiveness and I was jealous.
Though I don’t at all take back what I said about it feeling horrible. Like there’s a delicate tipping point between gripping my pepper spray, hating dudes everywhere, and “ARE MY BOOBS INVISIBLE BECAUSE I AM LIKE SIX IGNORED HOURS AWAY FROM GETTING NAKED IN A STARBUCKS, OR SOMETHING.”
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My friend was telling me about how she likes a guy, but she really wants to be his girlfriend so she can teach him how to dress himself, arrange his furniture, make his bed, smell good, etc.
I never realized til this moment, but… I think I need a girlfriend.
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College students put up with a lot of things that most adults don’t: food-wise, roommate-wise, easily-avoidable-day-long-hangover-wise.
To try to avoid sharing a room last year, because I decided I was over other people’s boobs but was still working within modest financial limitations, I lived in what used to literally be a coat room. It was so small, it was one broom away from being a broom closet. I wouldn’t let the cat come in because then it’d be crowded. It was so small, it’s not technically considered a planet anymore. It still sat up and paid attention during Enzyte commercials, if you know what I mean. (What I mean is it was really really small.)
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I just posted a new Campus Basement article! There are over forty others to peruse if that one doesn’t light your fire. Something in there has to. Here’s another real cool person:
I just posted a new Campus Basement article! There are over forty others to peruse if that one doesn’t light your fire. Something in there has to.
Here’s another real cool person:
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I decided to give in to telling the internet where I am at all times, since Facebook adopted a Foursquare-style location checking in thing. Now, when I post anything, I can include where I am and who I was with.
I’m excited for people to think “oh, Leah Folta is at her house again, how about that. And by herself!” or “that Leah Folta sure does go to Ralph’s about once a week. And by herself!” or “Leah Folta is gone for the weekend, now would be a good time to rob her.” If I ever forget to include where I am, for future reference, it is most likely a mundane USC-area place. And by myself!
I propose to the people at Facebook (who I picture as cheerily-designed but untrustworthy robots) that we also get buttons for other details – to start, who I WISH was with me, how hungry I am, what song I have stuck in my head, what I’m wearing (including a “[giggle] what are you wearing” option), how badly I need attention at that particular moment, and how lonely I honestly feel.
Hopefully with all these details out there constantly, someone will slowly fall in love with me and there will be somebody to accompany me to Ralph’s once in a while.
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