Little Black Book

little black book ecard

Definition [according to urbandictionary.com]: Name for a man’s pocket directory of [hopefully] promiscuous women

Well, in my case, a women’s pocket directory for [some] promiscuous men. Yes, I do keep a list of men I have gone out with, slept with, and whatever else is in between those two things. As a self-proclaimed bachelorette, I take pride in knowing the name of every man [or in some cases, boy] I have gone out with. Pathetic? Maybe. Do I care? Nope.

Let’s take a stroll down memory lane, shall we? Names may or may not be changed to protect the innocent. [These are not listed in any particular order or preference]

1. We will call him ‘Captain’.

Wait… scratch that. I’m not going to bore you with all the minor details of all my dates. Let’s just say that I have gone out with, dated, and slept with [sorry mom] all different types of men. Military men, cops, a bald guy [or 2], an accountant, and one guy that lied about his age [it will haunt me for the rest of my life!].

Why do I keep a list, you ask? Well… why not? It makes for an interesting story. Maybe down the line somewhere I can see where I went wrong or at least get a really good laugh out of it. Some of the guys were fantastic, like Captain I almost told you about. But others were total duds. For example:

I met homeboy at Spider Kelly’s one fine, drunken Friday evening. He was cute… looking back on it, I think that was the vodka speaking but whatever. He was tall [if you know me, you know this is a big deal], and he said he drove a nice car and had a motorcycle [another panty dropper for me]. He filled my head with all the things a girl drinking vodka wants to hear. I’m going to take you out and show you a great time! I’ll take you for a ride on my motorcycle! Blah blah blah. I totally ate it up, too. Why? Because I’m a girl. Long story short. I did not get a motorcycle ride [he had sold his bike] and he definitely didn’t take me out for a good time [he did have a nice car though… bummer]. He offered me LEFTOVERS for dinner. Yes, leftovers. You read that correctly. I was appalled. I mean, really?! Don’t get me wrong, I love some good leftovers but NOT, I repeat, NOT on a first date [or third or fourth or fifth or sixth]. The only person I will accept leftovers from is my mother. Eventually we made it to the bar…. Along with two of his friends. Cool. Homeboy was texting another girl the entire time, flirting with the bar tender, and overall just being a jackass. I ended up leaving him at the bar. And by leaving, I mean I RAN! Literally. I was like Forest Gump.

When you’re done laughing I will continue…. Done? Okay, good. The point is, I find it humorous to look back on my list of romantic encounters [or lack thereof], dating experiences, and sexual escapades. I’ve had friends ask me why on earth would I want a record of that?! They look at me like I have three heads. Aren’t I worried someone would find the list?! If you find it, all the more power to you. Congratulations. You get a gold star! No, I’m not worried, and no, I do not have three heads. One day when I’m old and not gray [because I’ll be that old lady with a bad dye job], I’m going to look back at this time of my life and laugh. Because right now I’m a 20-something who has nothing to lose and everything to gain. Life is all about creating memories and I just happen to write mine down.

Ciao for now!

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