Humiliation

For the past few months, I have been hiding myself away in humiliation. That's right, folks. I'm not married yet. Heidi is not a marriageable lady.Don't get me wrong, I've met a few promising leads, and about 3 or 4 I-would-almost-except-for-she-has-a-vagina-and-I-live-in-a-non-gay-marriage-state lesbians, but other than that, men just don't seem to want to solve all of my deep and unmanageable mental issues with their penis.

Now I may not be the most clever chick in the world, but I've seen enough movies to know a lot of things about Men. In fact, I could probably put those things into list form. And you know what? That's what I'll do. 

Here goes.

Things about men that I know from chick flicks:

1. They never mean what they say, and never say what they mean. There's always a double meaning behind everything they do, and if you don't figure it out, you should bug the shit out of him about it. 

What kind of person would actually NOT expect you to read their mind?

2. If everything isn't completely perfect, you should leave him, because relationships don't require any work whatsoever. 

3. Every single problem you have can be solved by a penis and resigning yourself to kitchen and baby duty for the rest of your life.

4. I don't think I ever want to see a sex scene between Meg Ryan and Mark Ruffalo again. 

Wait...that wasn't a chick flick. That was "In the Cut." And it has absolutely nothing to do with what I know about men.

What the fuck ever. It's true. Anyway, back to what I was saying.

5. Being a woman involves panty hose, Mel Gibson, a hair dryer, prom, and something about being suicidal and calling your foreign boyfriend on your company phone. Men don't know that until they get the magical power to hear all of your thoughts, so bear with them.

Men are completely complicated creatures. Why can't they just be simple? I mean, it's not like I'm over-thinking things here. If I were over-thinking things, I'd certainly be the first woman to do something like that!

Maybe I ought to take a step back. Perhaps I'm being too forward. 

...That must be it. I've found a second wind, folks, and its name is "demanding marriage in the next 5 months instead of the next 3."

I know. Sometimes my self-control and extreme patience amaze me, too.

It's been a while. For lots of things. In this instance, posting.

I know, you all missed me so much that you could barely contain yourselves. Calm down. And possibly marry me. I spent the past week and a half or so looking for a husband. So far, no dice. But I did manage to get so drunk that I sobbed in the middle of my kitchen floor naked at 2 am because nobody will ever love me. 

So, flowers.

I'm thinking lilies would be nice. Perhaps some gardenias.

Maybe I'll throw some fruit in there to shake it up. Be one of those "outside the box"-ers.

Ha. Boxers.

And now for story time. 

I was standing in line with this one guy in Walmart Saturday trying to drop hints, when I noticed a women's magazine with an article teaser on the front entitled "4 ways to drop hints that you want him to pop the question." *I'm breaking character for a moment here to let you all know that these are actually prescribed tips from real women's magazines that I picked up off the Internet. I left their names out of it so I wouldn't get the shit sued out of me, and they wouldn't get the shit humiliated out of them. Prepare yourselves. It's about to get dumb up in here.I mean, after reading these, I didn't know whether to laugh or throw up in my mouth a little. So I did both.*

So after reading this advice (and getting stuck in line behind an old lady arguing with the only cashier on duty about expired coupons), I snuck what's-his-name's cellphone out of his man-purse, called his mother, and suggested she have a talk with him about settling down. (tip number one: call his mother, and inform her that her son is having commitment issues. She'll be able to talk some sense into him!  ...keep in mind, these are actual tips, that are, for the most part, about as likely to get you sent to the hospital as about 90 percent of Cosmo's sex tips.)

Anyway, she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about and threatened to call the police. But...she seemed pretty nice. So win-ster on that one.

I then quickly jotted down my engagement ring desires on a dirty napkin I found in my purse, and tucked it right into the front pocket of his handy-dandy "European shoulder bag" (after taking the advice of the magazine of course, and making it look like I wrote the desires in a letter to a friend.)

[tip number 2: jot down your wedding ring desires in a letter to a friend, and "accidentally" leave it someplace where he can find it.]

THE LETTER:

Dearest Felicia-

I want a 10 thousand dollar engagement ring. And if this guy in front of me in line at Walmart doesn't give it to me, I will hold his cat hostage, lock it in my closet, and feed it crushed potato chips under the door.

-H

That didn't seem like it was enough, though. Luckily, I had stolen his number out of his discreetly taken-and-replaced cell phone. So I pretended to "accidentally" send a text to him that was supposed to go to a friend.

[tip number 3: you know all those texts you send to your bestie about wanting him to "put a ring on it?" "Accidentally" send that text to him next time. Don't let go. Throw every crazy desire in there!]

THE TEXT:

Felicia-

I really want to be engaged right now. If this Walmart guy doesn't get engaged to me right this instant, I will hold his cat hostage, lock it in my closet, and feed it crushed potato chips under the door.

-H  <3

[I added the testicles symbol for good measure. Men love their testicles. That's psychology.]

I heard his phone go off a few seconds later. He read the text, and started to make a face. "This is it!", I thought.

He tapped a few characters in after a small period of deep consideration. My phone vibrated. The message?

"I don't know who you are. My name isn't Felicia. If  you're serious about the cat thing, that guy probably isn't going to marry you because you're nucking futs. Seek professional help."

I was a little peeved at the unsolicited advice, but I had a back-up plan. It was the ever mysterious...

TIP NUMBER 4:

I took a deep breath, tapped him on his shoulder, and shouted

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO LIVE FOREVER, YOU KNOW!"

He looked a little bewildered.
..."excuse me? can I ...can I help you?"

Tip 4: Remind him that he could die tomorrow. Literally terrify him into marrying you.

"I know we're both young and it seems like we have forever, but for all you know, you could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Love like ours doesn't happen every day! We have to grab this relationship by its testicles and hold on for dear life!" said I, each breath of passionate poetry dripping from my lips. 

He scratched his head.

"Look lady, you must have me confused for someone else. I'm gay"

"LOVE CONQUERS ALL!" I cried.

"Ask her to marry you already so she'll shut the hell up," the woman behind me snapped. 

"But-but-I-I don't even-I" he stammered.

I began to sob, flung my basket at him, and ran off flailing my arms.

I was so emotionally scarred that I ended up running out of the "in" door. I feel as if that could be a metaphor for my life. Anyhow, another failed relationship. Back to square one, I guess.

Fishing for the smart ones

I know that going to Community College wasn't exactly the right choice in the romance department, but I am flat broke. No lie. I can't even afford my Community College tuition, and it costs less than a nice T.V. This is bullshit. I went to class today in search of a strapping intelligent lad, and found a handful of somewhat promising creepy assholes instead.

Now, I know I may seem desperate at times (I serously busted out a box, a stick, shoestring, and a fresh steak, and stood outside the neighbors house trying to trap him for hours), but I still have standards.

Standard number one?

Not this guy.

Standard number two.

Not this guy:

And finally, standard number 3:

NOT NOT NOT this guy.

And every single man I've met is an odd combination of the 3 (Mangina and all).

So I'm thinking this is going to be a challenge. But it's a challenge that I'm willing to accept. I want to be drowning in marital bliss. Maybe my standards are too high?

Anywho, still waiting on the ice sculptor to tell me whether or not my dream sculpture is do-able.

If it isn't, I'm going to be so fucking upset.

P.S.: Prieview of the Bridesmaid Dress

I figured that for my bridesmaid dresses, I'd try to please everyone who ISN'T me. Now, my Aunt Felicia is kind of one of those open-minded people who grew up in the 70's and had sex with like everyone. And everything. Literally. I'm pretty sure she had sex with like a pack of wild emu or something. She probably wouldn't give a rat fuck what my wedding is like, so long as there's alcohol, but I'm going to pretend like she'd care anyway so I can stomp around and be a big fat bridezilla cunt. My Grandma Sally hates any kind of skin, and was in fact a nun before being evicted from the nun factory for being over-qualified or some shit like that. So she'd probably want a floor length dress with sleeves that cover up the hands. Because hands are apparently a tool of the devil. My sister said "I just want you to be happy." And we all know that means "freak out and over-interpret everything I say, then complalin about how I want to control your wedding and act like a huge bitch." So I'm going to assume that whatever could possibly make this situation worse is what she wants. So I think I may have finally found the dress to appease everyone:

See? It's kind of like saying "I want to have sex with you, but it will take you at least 7 hours to remove this dress from my body, and by that time we'll be too exhausted for adult activities."

It's perfect.

If you don't like it, oh well. It's not your wedding. It's...not...even...mine......

Defecating with complete and utter excitement

I know it's only been a few hours since I've blogged, but I just thought I'd take the time out to let you all know that nobody wants to marry me. Still. I'd get depressed, but that would probably lead me to commit suicide. And you can't get married when you're dead. I don't think. ...It may be legal, but I don't plan on finding out whether or not it is. You know... some girls want to be successful. Some girls want to travel the world. I want a fucking wedding. With the works. I want an ice sculpture of Jesus making love to a giraffe in a tutu atop a rainbow. How much would that cost? Gimme a minute to Google it.

...
Well, I'm back. I sent an e-mail to a professional ice sculptor in Ohio, and will be posting their response to my inquiry as soon as I hear from him. Because I literally have nothing else to do besides stupid shit like this. And also school. But getting a proper education and being happy with my successes is far less important than getting married to some dildo brain who will end up hating and/or cheating on me after like 3 months of marriage. Or maybe I'm confusing marriage with all of my relationships.
Fuck. Depressing. Suicide.
Back to wedding plans. Huzzah!
I've picked out my bridesmaids dresses.

Now if only my friends didn't think I was fucking crazy for planning a wedding without a husband...

(to anyone who would like to be a bridesmaid in my "totally happening, I promise" wedding, you may contact me via blogger. I think. I don't know how this shit works. Figure it out yourselves. Comment on this shit or something.)

I've set the date. As "Happening." Just uh...working out the details on, you know, the"when someone will actually love me" part.
So, save the date.

You know, the...the date. The one I'm totally getting married on. Yeah, that one.

...the end?

"Rock" bottom

See what I did there? Rock. Like a ring. And bottom. Because I don't have one. I've been trying to get someone to propose to me for a while now, but apparently it's really difficult to make a commitment to a strange girl in a random night club who asks you to marry and/or wreck her. Call me old-fashioned, but I think there used to be a time when it was perfectly acceptable (and not at all totally creepy) to waltz up to a stranger and ask them to make a lifelong commitment (and possibly children) to (and with) you (respectively.) Anywho, I decided "Hey, fuck it. I'm starting a wedding blog." I know it seems like wishful thinking, but I know that someday a perfect gentleman will accept my bold, brazen advances and offers to "put my head between my legs and make you wish I had all 18 of your illegitimate children." One day, my hand will not have the cheap fake rock I put on it to make people think I'm important. One day, a nice boy will take me out on a date, I will announce to him that I am ovulating, and he will squeal with joy and begin his mating dance. Yes, one day, I shall be married. And fuck damnit, that day had better be yesterday. Because I want a wedding. I don't even care about a husband. I just want a wedding. And children to dress up in little chimp outfits. Or chimps to dress up in little children outfits, I don't even fucking care. And so, my wedding blog begins.