Dear Alexis,
I am going to make a few promises to you in a moment. Hold please, I have to go get another bowl of cereal. Okay, I’m back.
That was my second bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. I think the first bowl produced a serious injury to the roof of my mouth. That cereal is like eating delicious peanut buttery shards of metal. I ate so much tonight. Two bowls of cereal isn’t that big of a deal. However, the two bags of popcorn, hummus wrap, and half a box of Andes candies really did some damage to my quest for Gwen Stefani abs.
If it wasn’t painfully obvious, I finished off that weed with a friend of mine tonight. Whoops. But I hardly enjoyed the first tokes, as I was convinced that my closeted-family-man landlord was about to knock down my door to complain about the narcotics in his best 7th grade drama-club tone. I eventually settled down and watched Will Ferrell’s “You’re Welcome America.”
I can’t quite figure out if the writers devoted their funniest quips to the first half of the show or if my high started to wear off. I enjoyed it nonetheless.
So in fairness to me, despite the fact that I smoked a giant bowl of weed on a Sunday night, I didn’t have an unproductive weekend. On the contrary, I would consider this weekend quite a success: I went to the gym twice, smiled at a few different guys, did some shopping, worked a little overtime, and spent some quality time with friends.
It was a pretty good weekend regardless of the fact that I overheard a friend telling someone he was going to set me up on a date because I “needed it more than anyone else.”
Do you remember when I sat you down last year and told you in typical asshole fashion that you were a waste case? I’m having that conversation with myself right now, only this time it’s happening in a letter form directed to you. I’m kind of a waste case, albeit a lovable and adorable waste case.
In an effort to improve said condition, I’m going to make you a few realistic promises (remember that Lent thing? Ha, we both knew that was never happening). Here we go…
- I’m only drinking twice a week from now on.
- I’m still not going to drink any beer.
- I’m going to finish off the rest of the weed I have (on a weekend) and then I’m not going to buy anymore. Paranoia and the fifteen pounds I’m heading to gain from the use of recreational marijuana outweigh the benefit of feelings of temporary weightlessness and bliss.
- Remember that food diary my personal trainer told me to keep? Remember the same food diary I kept for two weeks and then stopped? I’m going to do it regularly and I challenge you to pop-quiz me on that.
- Ugh, I guess I’ll try to be a little nicer to you as well. Seriously, I won’t tease you about the inevitability of you dancing naked for money one day, or the fact that you’re bound to be a horrible wife. Seriously, I won’t tell you about the affair I’m plotting with your father or brother or, if I play my cards right, the two of them.
I need to get my shit together and I think tomorrow is the perfect day to do so.
Your business partner,
-Anastasia Beam
Filed under: alcohol, douche baggery | Tags: alcohol, anastasia, marijuana, men, mta, relationships, women
So, a year ago I learned an awkward mother fucking lesson. And in true Anastasia fashion, I did so by taking Alexis down with me. This whole incident happened shortly after I had first met Alexis. I love when you meet people who are equally insane (or retarded) as you are. This ensures whenever I have a particularly irresponsible story, I know I don’t have to look far for someone to top it.
I have a thing for guys with beards and dark hair. Apparently, I seem to think that all men with dark hair and beards are rugged and capable of grabbing me, throwing me around a little bit and then fucking the absolute life out of me. Sadly, I’ve learned this is in no way true. I’m almost starting to believe that a beard on a man is nothing more than foreshadowing of a bad session of sex followed by him weeping in my arms. Cue the projectile vomiting.
But unfortunately at that time I had not yet developed said rugged-beard-man theory and when I saw a young bearded guy frequently at the train, I was intrigued. This sad little story starts on the platform of my subway stop in the middle of my fat phase in which I donned nothing but hoodies and never showed off my fabulous cleavage.
After a month of visually stalking and emailing friends about the cute bearded guy with the red backpack, it was time to take action. Despite Alexis’ suggestion for me to toss back a few 9am shots of liquid courage, I introduced myself to him sober. Had I followed her advice, it probably would have gone down a lot better.
Looking back on it, I like to think that I was suave as shit, but in reality it was an awkward introduction. I practically pushed him and instead of being cool and collected I just about yelled out “HELLOISEEYOUONTHETRAINALLTHETIMEANDWANTEDTOSAYHI” in one breath.
In spite of my horrendous introduction, he turned out to be a nice guy. We started sitting together and chatting in the morning and soon he invited me to one of his band’s shows.
This guy was cute, funny, had a chance of becoming a famous musician (I imagined once he was famous and we were married, we would spend summers in our loft in SoHo and winter somewhere in Europe) and seemed interested in me. Too good to be true, right?
The night of the show came and Alexis, her cousin and I all went to the shade ball club. It was a pretty average night up until his performance: drank a shit ton, met his friends, flirted with strangers all while being unbelievably adorable the whole time.
And then his band went on stage. I wish to god I could remember their name because it was horrible. The performance wasn’t much better than their name. The speakers were too loud, the guitars seemed slightly off key, his cousin played the bass horribly and acted like Courtney Love at the height of Hole’s fame. I could not have been less impressed, but I had a sufficient amount of alcohol in me and visions of his dick in my near future, so needless to say I stood close to the stage with my shirt as low as possible.
Thirty minutes and a cacophony later, I was congratulating him on their fine performance with the most sloppy make out session in the back of the bar. I don’t remember how we got to the empty sound room but I do remember almost spilling my Heiniken all over $10,000 of equipment when I impulsively wrapped my legs around his waist.
I forced Alexis to come back to his apartment with me. His creepy ass, hairy chested, gold chain wearing, douche bag of a roommate had been hitting on her the whole night and because she felt bad for me she took one for the team and spent the night with gold chain.
After a big bong shared by friends we retired to his master suite and instantly Red backpack went from being smooth musician to this:
All he could talk about was pot, methods of smoking pot, ways to grow pot, hemp clothing and necklaces and various other marijuana related topics. At one point he reminisced about his college days in which he would wake up, smoke and then go back to bed. Now, I enjoy the herbals as much as the next gal, but at this point I just wanted to fool around, so I started making all the moves.
His bedroom moves weren’t much better than his band. His fat, frumpy fingers poked and prodded me in more uncomfortable ways than my last lady doctor appointment. He squeezed my tits like they were, well, sand bags. When he started making the motions to go downtown with his mouth, I faked passing out and rolled over. I was not going to let him put his face in my no-no spot after his poor overall performance.
I had missed Alexis’ text telling me that she was fleeing the apartment, so at 6am I collected all my shit and exited the apartment without waking anyone. My walk of shame was not about regretting my actions. This time, I was more upset that he turned out to be so terrible in the bedroom.
When I saw him on the train on Monday morning I suffered through the most excruciatingly awkward 45 minute commute. I barely remember our discussion but at one point I figured it would have been smarter to walk to work that morning.
If you can’t afford Manhattan, your life pretty much revolves around the MTA. I spent the next two months awkwardly avoiding Red Backpack in the morning. Lesson learned, don’t shit where you eat.
Eventually he left NYC to, and I quote, “Be a big fish in a little pond” in Georgia.
How’s that working out for you, buddy?
-Anastasia Beam
