Introducing Me: NOT the ‘Type A’ Personality Who Is Only Somewhat Sexually Frustrated

There Will Be Two Parts Of My Blog:

Part One: The Content Revolving Around The Title “Crazy Comments From My Roommate Who Is A ‘Type A’ Personality, Sexually Frustrated & Super Extra About Life”

I am an (unpublished, hint to any literary agents who stumbled upon my page) author of romance novels (new adult & adult), who tends not to stray from her preferred genre of writing, but it was pointed out to me several times that the energy I spend retelling the outrageous things my roommate says or does could be done so only once with the added bonus of an unlimited amount of people seeing it if I began a blog. I suppose this is what therapists would call a “creative outlet” and what basic bitch millennials would call “savage” or possibly “petty”. Whatever you want to label this uncharted genre of writing to me I do hope that it makes you laugh out loud or at the very least makes you more thankful for your tiny ass studio apartment you spend far too much money on (if you have been blessed with such financial stability). Because let me tell you, sanity comes at an expensive cost, and if you are a struggling, ridiculously in debt, millennial such as myself you sure as hell are too broke to afford such a luxury. So, for now while I live with a person who has taught me to bite my tongue until it bleeds to keep my truly mean opinions to myself and only say nice things to her face, I will write this behind her back.

Roomie, if you ever stumble upon this, I am sorry…but not really because, well , I will go with the top 2 reasons.

  1. You are so beyond mean to me. The things you say to me are super hurtful. For example, telling me that a lot of people wouldn’t want to be with me because I come from a “broken home” (see entry “The List”) was uncalled for. It actually made me call my soulmate crying. You say things that are really hurtful when they do not need to be said. Another example is when you came home shopping with your friend who was home from London. I was sitting on the table, minding my own business, just writing, not even talking and you then yell from your room, “I love you but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more ratchet than you do right now.” WHY THE FUCK WAS THE NECESSARY? I am just sitting there, doing nothing to entice your mean spirit and you feel the need to insult me in front of your guest? What the fuck was that about? And don’t think I didn’t hear you talking shit about me when you were walking up to the front door. That was just plain tacky and rude.

Basically, if I didn’t write this I would make you feel as shitty as you make me feel, but I don’t want to do that. Because unlike you I’m actually a nice person and don’t get off on making people cry.

and

2. If I did not have this outlet eventually I may smother you with a pillow after you lectured me for the millionth time that by leaving the front door of our Scottsdale apartment unlocked for a solid twenty minutes, mid-day on a Sunday, this will lead to us getting robbed and no matter what way the situation will be spun it will absolutely, 100% be all my fault. Even though the only reason I unlocked the door in the first place was so you would shut the hell up about the fucking garbage that you had been bitching about for the past hour.

This way you get to live, I stay out of prison, and others are amused. It’s a win-win for all.

Part Two: Excerpts From My Writing! I will add pictures from Instagram which are quotes of my books and a paragraph here and there if you are interested in reading my other forms of literature the links will be attached!

So now that I have described what you are about to view…. world, I present to you Author R.Lee Shelton’s first ever blog: “Crazy Comments From My Roommate Who Is A ‘Type A’ Personality, Sexually Frustrated & Super Extra About Life”

Enjoy!

P.S. Please do not leave mean comments, I am a sensitive person. If you do not like my blog just don’t read anymore and move on with your life. Or do what I am doing and begin your own rant page about the statements that annoy you.

Also, I apologize for all the random rants and tangents that will certainly happen when I try and tell these stories. At least I am warning you in advance!

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Featured post

Mental Health

Fair warning to anyone who has read my previous blog posts that this entry will not be filled with laughter and it covers a very serious topic. Brace yourself. Maybe you can relate or possibly this will help you understand the state of a loved one’s mental health, either way, I hope our society can continue discussing what can be considered a taboo topic.

The thought of swallowing bottles of various pills to end what I have come to terms with as a lifelong problem has crossed my mind more times than I can count. It is a blessing and a curse to not have the courage to execute my well thought out strategy. Although the most recent time, I had seriously contemplated killing myself there had been a knife clutched in my hand at the bottom of a running shower while I begged myself to find the courage to live. If I had not learned from practice how to talk myself out of suicide the ill prescribed medication doled out by an inadequate psychatrist, I would not be here today.  I know I am not alone in this feeling. Anyone who suffers from chronic depression or has it as a symptom of their chemical and/or personality disorder can probably tell you the plan they have personally conjured if deciding to take their own life.

The irony of the way I have chosen is the latest depression I have slipped in to has lasted for months because I no longer could self-medicate to stop the pain. My personal nickname “The Pharmacist” was accurate. Acquiring any arrangement of pill bottles, all prescribed to me at one point, a few random pills here and there my friends gave me to try and see if it leveled out my stability. My medicine cabinet mimicked Valley of the Dolls. It was how I was taught to survive at a young age. For a while, it worked until it didn’t. The problem with pharmaceuticals is the tolerance the human system builds towards a substance. One Ativan in the morning no longer took the edge off, 10 mg of Adderall might have well been replaced with a weak cup of Folgers, a few glasses of wine did not keep my starved body inebriated for long.

But what else could I do other than take another handful of narcotics when it hurts to be alive?

Nothing but unbearable pain awaited me when I decided to conquer my disorder by increasing therapy and decreased the medication. To be honest, I still feel unbearable pain a lot of the time, during the rougher days since I am no longer heavily dosed and it becomes especially gruesome when I pretend I can live without my medication. One day I will hopefully be able to not rely on prescribed emotions but I have been told both by therapists and doctors it will be years before I can even dream of such a life. Between an untreated personality disorder, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and a high tolerance for many narcotics its amazing I am still alive. If I need a little help while I rebuild myself then that is okay. A person shows their true strength not by whether or not they can accomplish a task on their own but if they are humble enough to ask for help when its needed.

Behind a pretty smile, witty humor, and a small amount of effort into one’s physical appearance, it can be easy enough to fool the world…until you have no energy left after forcing yourself to live another day. A repetitive cycle I assumed was normal by the time I hit high school.

Before narcotics, I indulged in bulimia and cutting. This phase began at 15. I am now 27 and still struggle to fight these addictions even now.

Sometimes you just need the pain to stop.

No one explained to me that it would all get better, that it could get better. Even when I was in tears explaining to my father such intense emotions he blamed it on adolescent love and hormones. My mother did not understand there had been a real issue at hand until I took a blade to my arm at 16 and forced her to see the blood running down. Dropping from 130+ pounds down to 107 in the same summer, to the point the pediatrician threatened hospitalization if I dropped another pound did not seem to alarm anyone. As you can see my parents were not what some would call “involved.”

In those days suicide had been on my mind a lot. My actions had been a blatant cry for help. Hell, my physical out-cry for help should have been enough. It would take until my 18th birthday to be misdiagnosed as someone who was Bi-Polar. When the generic pill combination prescribed to most Manic-Depressives had run me to the closest edge of suicide I had ever been, the diagnosis would be erased. Later on, it would be corrected as Borderline Personality Disorder.

For those who are unaware it is not uncommon for the two to be mixed up when diagnosing one or the other. It’s the failure of medication, from my experience that gives the definitive answer. There is no cure or pill combination for those who suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder, but there is for Bi-Polar. Just therapy and for some people certain medications work to keep Borderline’s victims at bay.

Unfortunately, for me, my brain chemistry is not mapped out like others. Even when comparing results of street drugs I do not have the same reaction. Cocaine calms me down. MDMA makes me suicidal. Any form of any THC strain makes me wildly hallucinate. The couple occasions I tried crack at 19, it put me right to sleep. That is a taste of my unsettling brain chemistry. After sharing that information, I would hope it would not surprise you to hear majority mood stabilizers, anti-depressants, and anti-anxieties did the opposite of what they had been designed to do when I partook in them. I found the proper meds given to me by my PCP that soothed me and kept me sane, ones that the doctors are now hesitant to prescribe.

The medical community and Donald Trump’s administration has taken a stance on psychotropic drugs. Not a good one, might I add. The protestors insist such pills are addicting and should not be available to most. It is hard enough to live with a disorder that is not treatable but to take away options that make us feel sane does not make sense to me and I am probably not the only one who has this belief. The government would rather use the mentally ill’s suicide rate, climbing higher by the year as some horrific form of population control than to give the medication to those in need. And for what reason, may I ask?

After 5 years of being on the same medications prescribed by my PCP, a sudden new law “invoked by the Trump administration”, stated by my Nurse Practioner had forced me to find a psychiatrist, wait an entire month for an appointment to be hassled by a doctor who prescribed me a whole new set of narcotics that caused me to almost kill myself, all just to maintain the same prescriptions I had been on for half a decade. This is all while I was in therapy and was advised by my therapist not to change my medication regimen.

I promise this is not turning into a rant on the second amendment or the government, but it does need to be pointed out that our government does not give a fuck about our safety.

*Take a look on Chris Rock’s stand-up bit which connects the government’s concern with public safety and gun control*

It seems to be under Trump, the Republican Congress has looked the other way on gun control restrictions and replied to outrage over the nation’s deadliest mass shootings with empty apologies and tip toeing around a concrete answer on how the issue will be handled in a constructive way. If there is no specific stance or criteria to keep weapons out of the hands of those who use gun violence to play God on not just their own life but innocent bystanders, my question is, why can someone who is mentally unwell that has ownership of a gun be allowed to dictate whether I live or die but I do not have the right to continue the medication that not only keeps me from taking my own life but allows me to be a productive member of society? Someone who is considered a good person,  that also volunteers, and works a corporate job five days a week.

I thank God every day for the life I have been blessed with, which includes having a job that affords me medical care to which I do have access to medication and therapy. Although the fear of my mental stability, if I am suddenly cut off completely, has pushed me to break a couple of times into panic attacks. Ironically the drugs designed to keep someone from feeling such urges or actually committing suicide is at great risk of being led straight to it when abruptly discontinuing its use because they no longer have access to what had been prescribed to them previously by a trained doctor.

For those who have not had to practice hiding the blades or locking oneself outside until the drive to end your own life has worn off, I fear they may not have the control to stop themselves. A fear that I share with my therapist, along with many of her collegues in the behavioral health field.

Unfortunately, a very real fear for those who are close to or have already been subjected to being kept from their medication.

For those who have not had to rely on medication to function do not understand is some people are not born whole, some are torn apart as they grow older, and some were not gifted in the same way “normal” people were. I dated someone for about a month, a “go-getter” kind of guy. Upbeat, athletic,  beautiful but also has Aspergers. I found it odd that he would always question why I did not yet have a handle on my disorder when part of his is a lack of empathy. A trait he admitted to me. When he would roll his eyes or tell me things along the same line of BPD is just another form of weakness I wanted to fire back at him with the statement, “The day you learn to empathize will be the day I can control my emotions like an on and off switch”, which I did not. I do not defend myself by purposely hurting others.

Needless to say, we did not work out, nor could we ever.

Even my father, who had been my mentor on Self-Medicating does not understand depression or even truly believe there is such a disorder. It was not until he recently asked my sister who has her masters in Marriage and Family therapy about depression and anxiety because his fiance had been exhibiting signs of both in the past couple months since her unfortunate stroke. That, however, is a whole other topic.

My point is those who do not believe in clinically diagnosed disorders, such as my father, must suffer to a certain extent to resort to self-medicating with booze and drugs on a constant basis must understand feeling  “off”, if a substance is necessary to feel completely straight on a bad day. If only they could bottle that emotion, induce the potency and pour that into their morning cup of coffee each day, then maybe the unnecessary judgment would come to an end allowing the ones crying out for help to finally be heard.

I pled for someone to believe my pain when I began realizing that it was not teenage angst encouraging me throw up dinner and slice my skin. It was a real sickness that took until I was in my 20’s to be told officially what had been wrong with me. It may sound insane to some, but I could not be more thankfully for finally be given a diagnosis.

Maybe you understand the feeling I am talking about. A sense of relief. Confirmation that the darkness living within was not imaginary.  Finally, an answer to the question: Is it just me who feels this ungodly pain? 

For those who have only found themselves contemplating suicide in their darkest hour or can snap themselves out of sadness by thinking happy thoughts, I envy you. Life must be lovely all the time when you are completely balanced. My advice to those people I just described who get all holier than thou to those of us who suffer from the many mental disorders out there, instead of getting mouthy on a topic you have not the slightest personal knowledge of, just thank your lucky fucking stars and save the lecture on “control”. If you continue to give input on subjects no one has asked you to nor wants you to disucss then someone should hit you with a car and when you are in the hospital crying because you need morphine for your broken leg I will happily refrain you from any form of pain reliever, even baby asprin until you understand that just because I cannot feel your pain does not give me the right to tell you whether it is exists or not. Mental illness is just as real and painful as any physical illness.

Pretending it does not hurt will not make it go away, will it? I am going to say no.

There is a lot to be said about mental health and even more work to be done in our country and around the world to help those with instability. This was just a rant I needed to write down to help with my own personal health. I am sure there will be more I have to say but for now that is all. Maybe you found reading this a waste of your time, gave you comfort or possibly gave you insight on what it is like for those who struggle daily with a disorder when you would never guess there was any sort of issue unless they had personally disclosed.

Either way, thank you for the time you have given my post today.

xoxo

 

Cosmo Magazine Explains “10 Things Only ‘Type A’ People Get About Dating” & MY REACTIONS TO IT**

Some of us are Early Birds and the rest of us normal people are Night Owls. It takes me a minimum of 6 alarms to haul my ass out of bed, which my roommate has her own opinions on.

That story is another future entry, my darlings.

Once I concede to my alarms and remove my sleep mask (if you haven’t tried one I INSIST you do. Their AMAZING!) I then try and adjust to my conscious state, giving myself a 15-20 window before it is truly necessary to begin my day. Like any true millennial the first productive activity I do in the morning is to check my phone to see if anyone sent me a message via text or Snapchat. After replying to those I then scroll to my Snapchat subscriptions. There are only two I am interested in: People Magazine and Cosmopolitan.

During today’s morning ritual I was greeted with a gift from the heavens when opening up Cosmopolitan’s Snapchat subscription.

Low and behold an article titled, “10 Things Only Type A People Get About Dating” smacks in me in the face.

No joke, it literally smacked me in the face because I am even more of a klutz than normal when half asleep and I dropped my phone onto my face.  Anyhow, I felt as if the author of the article, Carina Hsieh had stumbled upon my blog over the weekend and felt the need to defend all neurotic ‘Type A’ personalities out there that are simply “misunderstood.”

No, ‘Type A’ personalities who feel personally attacked because of your behavior and rude comments that should be kept to yourself but are blurted out during the most inappropriate times does not mean you have fallen victim to the world’s cruel behavior. It means you have two options here. Either learn to keep your unnecessary comments to yourself or the more logical solution knowing option one isn’t truly valid,  go with option number two, pop a Xanax and take the stick out of your ass.

Although half this blog is just one massive rant session about my roommate, I never thought I would be doing a “React” entry to anything other than her outrageous comments, but I cannot help myself on this one. This article just further proves that I am not making the shit she says up. There are others like her. Who I presume have their own blogs being written about them by their roommates.

We should start a club! It would probably be a healthy outlet. Like an emotional support group.

As I read this tragically truthful article at 5am, which is far too early to be disappointed in humanity, all I could do was shake my head and think, oh my God, certain lines from this article have been said out loud in my presence by my fucking ‘type A’ personality, sexually frustrated & super extra about life, roommate.

If you had not had the pleasure of reading this Cosmopolitan article published to their Snapchat account on January 2, 2018, then get excited!

**If it does not become apparent, the bolded sections will be my thoughts on the subject matter, which will not at all be disrespectful nor extremely vulgar

 

“10 Things Only Type A People Get About Dating”

Written By: Carina Hsieh

 

  1. “YOU NEED SOLID, SET-IN-STONE PLANS.”

“None of this, ‘let’s wait around literally all day and possibly touch base maybe’ bullsh*t. You already know what you’re doing six weeks from now at 5:13pm, so anyone else needs try to nail an exact date down here.”.

 

No one deserves to be the girl called last minute or should ever have to be someone’s “second choice”, or the one they keep on the back burner if no better offer comes along. Don’t ever let someone treat you as anything less than the great person you are. Unless you suck, then that’s just karma.

Solution to that problem: BE A NICER, LESS UPTIGHT, JUDGEMENTAL HUMAN BEING

If a guy you are dating treats you in a way that is truly disrespectful (like real life disrespectful, not Type A’s definition of disrespectful) then dump his sorry ass and date someone who will dedicate a rational alotted time to you. If he cannot commit to plans at the very least a couple days beforehand, and cannot at the bare minimum confirm the morning of said scheduled plans then why are you wasting your time?

Frankly, if you’re waiting around “literally all day” to “possibly touch base” (as mentioned above) for someone you need to reexamine your (not to sound too harsh) pathetic priorities. Especially if you are planning out your life in chunks of a six week span and/or in 15 minute increments. Then you really don’t have time for that nonsense.

Yeah, let’s get to the “you already know what you’re doing six weeks from now at 5:13pm.”

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ABOUT?

Other than a vacation, plans to visit someone who lives more than a 45-minute drive, or work deadlines, what the fuck are you planning six weeks in advance? If for some idiotic reason I called a guy I was dating tonight and asked him out for Saturday, February 17 because I booked us a stay-cation at a resort and his response was, “Sorry babe, my bff Steve and I already made plans that night to binge watch Stranger Things together.” I would pause involuntarily baffled by such nonsense he would then force himself to continue saying, “You know I’ve been busy working for 40 hours a week, going to the gym, and I now have decided to take an interest in going to car shows with Steve who lives 10 blocks from me, but I thought it best we physically write out our plans for February 17th in my day planner.”

I would be forced to go straight over to his place and smack him right upside the head.

 

  1. “YOU FEEL ANTSY TO LABEL STUFF RIGHT AWAY.”

“No, its not you being a clingy mess, you just genuinely enjoy labeling everything. You have a box in your apartment labeled “CORDS ETC.” and mind you, it’s a clear box. So of course you’re going to want to categorize whatever nebulous relationship you have going on.”

Oh no, Carina, it is not you being a “clingy mess”.  The type of men who are uncomfortable with you getting antsy to label them your “boyfriend” after one awkward first date and a second date he asked you out on out of sheer pity and/or terror, are just silly boys. It’s not at all that “labeling” them doesn’t make them feel rushed or that you’re being possessive, its just the sole fact that they are intimidated by independent women, who have our “sh*t” together. These males would also be the ones you would label (because we all know how much you love your labels!) “emotionally unavailable” and “commitment-phobes” when in reality they just can’t handle someone who is so in control of their life.

Don’t worry though, those men secretly love that you feel the need to label clear plastic containers.

The ones who don’t like your quick labeling of your relationship is the same type of silly man who would not understand that you aren’t actually a “clingy mess”, instead, they would use their own labels such as “neurotic” and “Stage Five Clinger.” 

Certainly NOT, a clingy mess. That would just be insulting. 

  1. “NETFLIX AND CHILL IS…NOT SO CHILL.”

“If you wind up spending all day doing nothing, you feel hella guilty. In theory, a day spent in bed, indulgently catching up on Netflix seems relaxing. But you know you’ll be carrying the guilt of that wasted day around at LEAST a week.”

Maybe, just maybe if you didn’t need to spend hours making labels to put on your clear plastic box filled with cable cords froom the TV you haven’t used since 2002 and all that other pointless, neurotic, unnecessary tasks you put in your day planner last June then you wouldn’t feel so guilty about binge-watching Once Upon A Time.

  Carina, let me update you on today’s lingo because it’s 2018 and not 2007. No one says “hella” anymore and do I really need to point out the improper context for “Netflix and Chill”?

 I thought this was clarified back in 2016 when America Ferrera said she wanted to “Netflix and Chill” with Hilary Clinton.

 

  1. “HAVING TO FIGHT EVERY URGE IN YOUR BODY TO CHECK YOUR PHONE ON A DATE.”

“You’re not bored you just need to know what time it is/if your boss has emailed you back and that thing/if your group text has settled on where you’re all grabbing brunch on Saturday.”

If you made this poor boy schedule taking you out to Olive Garden three months in advance give him the damn courtesy of waiting to veto Stacy’s favorite bottomless mimosa spot until he goes to the bathroom.

 

  1. “YOU DON’T BEAT AROUND THE BUSH WHEN IT COMES TO CONVERSATION.”

“How early is ‘too early’ to talk about exes. You just want to cut to the chase and don’t see the point in dilly dallying around.”

How about you don’t talk about your ex-boyfriends ever.

Maybe wait until the fourth date to mention that you want to be married in the next two years or that you’re dead set on having 3 kids (2 boys and 1 girl in that order).

Actually, what you should do as a fun conversation starter to kick off the first time you meet your future husband from Match.com for that Wednesday afternoon coffee date is show him all the wedding themes you already pinned on your Pinterest boards (because obviously there are multiple depending if he is a blonde or brunette). This will show him that not only do you have excellent tastes in cakes and men’s tuxedos but he no longer has to worry about silly things like planning the rest of his life.

You were ever so thoughtful to do that for him! He will be especially thankful when he comes over to your place for a nightcap on the second date to see you’ve desginated one of your dresser drawers for him, and his name is on the label.

Girl, you are so thoughtful!

 

  1. “YOUR DEFAULT IS TO DATE MORE THAN ONE PERSON AT A TIME UNTIL OTHERWISE AGREED UPON.”

“You multitask with everything so it only feels natural not to put all your eggs in one basket. Now was it the guy from Tuesday who told you that great story about working at Jamba Juice in high school? Who knows.”

Carina, this is what most people would refer to as “casual dating.”

 

  1. “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A SPONTANEOUS SLEEPOVER.”

“You know whether or not you’re spending the night before you head out for the night, let’s be real. Sure, you might play coy and even go through the motions of calling an Uber, but you’ve got an extra toothbrush and contact solution in your bag just in case.”

Heaven forbid you do something spontaneous like go home with a guy on the first night! How dare you not schedule a One Night Stand six months ago.

Nevermind, let’s be real. You don’t have One Night Stands.

I am beginning to understand why Roomie is so sexually frustrated, it is hard to plan out a night of good, fun sex months in advance unless it is the fun vacation sex which I will agree needs to be planned out at least six weeks in advance.

Have to put in that PTO early!

 

  1. “YOUR STANDARDS ARE THERE FOR A REASON.”

“Maybe everyone else is chill with dating a dude who still sleeps on an air mattress three years into the same lease, but you don’t have to be. It’s not to say you’re judgmental, you just expect to date someone with their sh*t as together as you do.”

And I quote, “It’s not to say you’re judgmental.” Hold on, I just need a moment!

**bursts into uncontrollable laughter, falls off bed, onto floor where I am now dying of laughter**

Just need another minute to gather my thoughts!

**gasping for air**

 I can’t breathe!

**pulls myself off floor and back onto bed to continue typing**

Whoo! Cosmo, you got jokes!

**Begins typing but must pause to wipe away tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks**

Let’s continue shall we? Back to my comments on #9.

Who the hell is this everyone else” you are referring to that is dating dudes who sleep on an air mattress?

Carina, I dare you to name at least 3 women who you personally know, none of this friend of a friend bullshit, that have previously or are currently dating a grown ass man that sleeps on an air mattress on a regular basis, let alone for the past 3 years?

Also, let me clarify when I say “man.” I would hope you would be indicating an adult who is at least in his mid-20’s and is no longer living with his frat brothers or parents and does not carry around a chain wallet, because that is the type of person I imagine who has been sleeping uncomfortably on a worn down, deflating air mattress for the last 3 years.

There really is nothing else left to say for #9 since I already did an entire entry dedicated to my thoughts on the standards of a ‘Type A’ personality.

See the entry “The List” for more details!

 

  1. “NOTHING GETS YOU GOING LIKE A WELL-THOUGHT OUT DATE PLAN.”

“If a guy has the foresight to have a plan in place, you’re SOLD.”

 

I beg to differ.

If your date Joey planned to pick you up in his beat up 1999 Honda Accord then headed to the closest Taco Bell drive-thru followed by going back to his place to “Netflix and Chill” on the infamous 3-year-old air mattress every man sleeps on… you’d be pissed.

What I think you meant to say Carina, is every guy should plan his date accordingly. The courtship would begin by Prince Phillip sending his carrier pigeon to your open bedroom window one spring afternoon, carrying a formal invitation for your first date which also happens to be his family’s annual Christmas ball. He would of course show up at your front door with the horse-drawn carriage standing idly behind him and a dozen red roses in hand. He would then immediately compliment the gorgeous gown you’re wearing. The ensemble that looks remarkably like one of the wedding dresses on your Pinterst board, that he also had pre-tailored to fit your measurements perfectly and sent to your doorstep in a box tied in a bow with a gold ribbon, six weeks earlier, because he knows how much you love marking time in six week increments. He would then escort you to the ball, introduce you to his parents, discuss how many children you want to have, and that he already has the plaza booked for your June wedding.

Yes, indeed Carina if a guy has the foresight to have that plan in place most women would be sold.

 

  1. YOU HAVE REALLY GOOD SEX.

“You’re invested in your partner’s orgasm just as thoroughly as you’re invested in your own. None of that ‘I didn’t, but it’s okay’ bullsh*t for you, thanks. You’ll find a way to get you both there no matter how long it takes.”

INACCURATE.

My blog is called “Crazy Comments From My Roommate Who Is A ‘Type A’ Personality, Sexually Frustrated & Super Extra About Life” for a reason, and it isn’t because she is sexually satisfied by this “really good sex” she is having.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

“Hampton Royalty: Not A Fairy Tale” Quote

“Being raped at 20-years-old had turned Redley Visconti into a Damsel In Distress and allowed Grayson Phillips III to don the title of her Knight In Shining Armor. He was stranger who evolved into a broken girl’s confident and she was the first and only girl he would ever fall in love with. As they grew older, they found themselves always in the company of the other, whether it be enjoying the finest pleasures of life or when they needed an escape from reality. They could be caught dreaming of a luxurious lifestyle and sharing an empire. A world they vowed to earn together.

Hours following an ill-fated afternoon and the unbearable task of faking a smile for an evening charity gala, the New York monarchs returned to their beachside manor. While tending to personal vices in solitude husband and wife pondered the same thought: at what moment did a thirst for fiscal power morph the two idealistic playmates into the uncompassionate King & icy Southampton Queen that they were revered as. Vodka deluded dreams were no longer a fantasy, but the only world they knew. Their harlequin romance was so far gone it would be unrecognizable to the coeds who had met decades earlier. A fairytale story that came at a cost of what had once been a beautiful love. A memory that had long since deteriorated into a searing hate, rooted from the mutual belief that they were each other’s happily ever after.”

I Know You Are Intrigued…Check Out Chapter One!

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

A Quote From The Novel “Bigger The Bottle, Messier The Mistake”!

A new adult romance, involving a college love triangle and two best friends named Leila & Eliza (pronounced Eh-lee-zah) who spend their summer months navigating boy drama, catfights with coke heads, and pregnancy scares. 

Ah, to be young again 🙂

Sounds Interesting huh? Check Chapter 1 Out!

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

“Hampton Royalty: Not A Fairy Tale” Novel Quote

 

Love the Quote? Enjoy Romance Novels? Then You’ll Want To Begin “Hampton Royalty: Not A Fairy Tale” Now 🙂

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

A Comment Here & There

As much as I love this blog, and it gives me a serious outlet for the daily frustrations I endure in my living situation, it occurred to me that if all I ever wrote was entries then my novels certainly would never get written.

Don’t worry, my darlings, there will be many entries because God only knows my roommate could never leave me without material.

However, there are some comments that I cannot let go of without sharing with you all first.

I put the Carrie Bradshaw gif up there for a reason. “Relationships, no matter how good are inevitably a series of compromises.” To be honest, I think she left out the bad ones too. In the awful relationships, you compromise far more often than in the good.

So, I introduce to you the Comment Of The Day From Roomie:

“If you’re going to use the oven, just don’t break it!”

Full disclosure, I have never broken an oven or kitchen appliance in my life.

Basically, there was no reason to throw it out there when I told her while she was gone I was going to use the oven.

Seriously, I just need to learn to become a mute or a mime when she is home. All of a sudden, I’ve lost my voice and can only communicate with her via posterboard ala Love Actually.

Normally, I do not reference movies I have never seen. Hold back your *gasp*. Relax, I’ll catch it next December when it is playing around the clock and need background noise to slit my wrists to out of loneliness.

The only reason I referenced it is because I cannot think of a more ridiculous way to express your feelings for someone, and surely as you’ve learned when it comes to my roommate I should be fighting fire with fire, meaning fight over the top comments with over the top responses in grand gesture format.

Also, I must add in my sister’s reply to her comment, stated over text message.

Sister: “WTF. Just don’t break the oven?

Sister: How does one do that?

Me: Sister, this is a great question

Sister: She’s a wackadoodle

 

Yes, indeed sister, she is a wackadoodle. 

 

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

Christmas Dinner

Hello, my darlings! I had planned on going in a different order with these blog entries, my next entry was going to be comparing Roomie’s “The List” with mine to show you what some of us refer to as a little saner with my realistic expectations of a life partner, but I cannot hold back what bullshit I just experienced.

The level of annoyance with my roommate going from “Perfectly Calm” to “Shut The Fuck Up” can happen within a split second.

To start off, I am going to share with you all that I am a Jew. So, naturally, Christmas day is no big deal for me. Typically, I like to spend it by myself without any interference from family or friends. This year I had made an exception because my girlfriend had asked me to come to her place for dinner but I was doing a sibling/not so sibling gift exchange with my brother in law’s family so instead I had opted to do adult beverage happy hour with my friend at 11am so I could participate and have a fun time with the extended members of my family via skype at night.

Spoiler Alert: I got a face concealer and magnetic false eyelashes. Hopefully, this will make me look halfway decent for my upcoming date this next weekend. Fingers Crossed!

After speaking with my friend about my roommate problems during Adult Beverage Hour, and the mere fact that it’s hard to not scream “Shut the fuck up” anytime I see her about to open her mouth my friend and I discussed that even though Roomie can be mean and make me cry more often than not I just need to continue being the nice human being that I am and not let it affect me.

So, earlier this week Roomie asked if we could do a “Jewish Christmas” together. Meaning, can we order Chinese food and watch movies together.

I replied with a, “Maybe.” I am a busy person with multiple friends who asked me to join their family activities so I was unsure how it would play out. She had looked kind of sad because her family had only opted to spend Christmas Eve with her, so I apparently had to pick up the slack.

I may come from a “broken home” (see entry “The List” to get the reference) but I certainly was not homeless on Christmas. Even my mother, who is Jewish asked me to come spend Christmas with her.

Anyhow, because I knew she had wanted me to do this with her and I often feel bad for those who do not enjoy alone time the same way I do when I was at my girlfriend’s place I texted my roommate and asked what she wanted from the Chinese place. After badgering me with “well I thought you had plans” blah fucking blah blah, she finally answered with “chow mein.”

Now, I am not a Chinese food expert so when I picked up my no joke, box of Chinese food and saw everything had been marked off I did not go through each box and check whether the food you ordered was correct but I honestly I have no idea what chow mein looks like because guess what, I don’t order that when I get takeout from this place! Sorry, I saw that it was in the box marked chow mein but I did not think to ask these very busy employees to stop on their second busiest day of the year, next to the Chinese New Year to ask them if this was fucking chow mein! MY BAD!

I get home and distribute the food, and I had even ordered extra food because that is what you do when you order Chinese. I even got the large instead of small orders because I was happy to share if she wanted to split some of my stuff.

Well, low and behold her order was wrong. It was a misfortune for more so me than her that the restaurant had given her chop suey not chow mein because now the bitching began. She was upset about this. Oh so very upset! She thought that she was getting low mein. She did not apparently even know what chow mein was supposed to look like, but she thought it was low mein.

Well good fucking thing I got a large order of chicken low mein right?

If you thought, yeah good thinking! Wrong! You would be fucking wrong like I was!

She could have just eaten the chicken low mein because that is what she thought she was getting, but no! She had to bitch and complain how absolutely terrible this dish was and then do a no joke 15 minute google search on the Chinese restaurant menu of what she could have ordered, then went on to find images of what chow mein looked like and then what chopped suey looked like and the “nasty” ingredients that it was made up of.

And as she did this she kept saying, two things, 1. “You should have told me where you were ordering from or called me to verify thats what I wanted.”

Why would I fucking call you to verify when you just text me to tell me THAT’S WHAT YOU WANTED!?

And 2. “Oh don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I just think its funny. No one would ever order this food its disgusting!”

Clearly, she did not find this was funny and wanted to just bitch about how I can do nothing right even when I was just trying to give you the “Jewish Christmas” you asked for in the first place!

Roomie, why the fuck would you be mad at me? I called the restaurant placed your order because I was just trying to be a nice roommate when you did not even wish me Merry Christmas back when I texted you earlier this morning.

I do not care if I am Jewish, if someone wishes you a Merry Christmas you can reply with Merry Christmas because you wanted to a “Jewish Christmas”. She could have said “Merry Jewish Christmas!” Come to think of it she did not even wish me Happy Hanukkah! I was not even going to try and light the menorah in my own home on my holiday because after the whole Halloween pumpkin debacle I was not about to light some damn candles.

Side note: on Halloween the neurotic princess of the household would not let me put a candle in my pumpkin outside sitting on the ledge above patio rocks. Why may you ask? Well, because what happens if the pumpkins fell, onto the ROCKS AND DIRT and then our apartment caught on fire. Yes, this is something she actually fucking said. So I had to go get those battery operated candles to put in my fucking pumpkin for Halloween so our apartment did not catch on fire.

Anyhow, I digress. Back to the Christmas dinner rant.

For fuck sake was that necessary to google what it looked like and continue to bitch how disgusting it was and that no one in their right mind should ever order it? No, she could have just eaten the chicken low mein I pulled from the box and set in front of her goddamn face.

Also, obviously people like it or else it would not be on every Chinese food restaurant menu for the past 50 years bitch!

Then, during her google search she then continued to complain that I needed to not just clean the dining room table but I needed to get the kitchen cleaned because she was maybe going to vacuum later. MAYBE going to vacuum, but I needed to have my assigned chores taken care of.

FUCK YOU! Just eat the fucking low mein and shut the hell up!

Then as she is getting up from complaining as I sat and just nodded along to her idiocy she added, “Maybe I’ll eat this later.” And puts it in the fridge!

My darlings, I wish you could have seen the expression on my face and the twitch in my eye. It was not a pretty picture.

Now she is currently watching Fuller House. She wanted to do a “Jewish Christmas” with me but did not even invite me to watch a movie or her stupid spin-off show. Tell me that was not fucking rude! I went out of my way to try and be nice to you and do as you requested, and not only did you manage to piss me off within less than five minutes of being home but you bitch about me needing to clean and then do not even invite me to continue the stupid fucking day you had planned.

I always invite her to watch a movie with me if I am in the living room and she comes out of her room. Why? It’s called good manners! Obviously, they do not teach you that in any of your Master’s of Accounting courses.

So, here we are on Christmas day my darlings. I am outside smoking a cigarette, writing this seething entry because if I do not I will grab all the tea light candles I have in my room (which is a few dozen from Halloween that I apparently won’t be able to use) light them around the couch she is laying on  and watch her look of terror as thoughts of her closet filled with cheap old navy sweaters goes down in flames.

I hope you all are having a happy holiday!

Merry Christmas My Darlings!

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

 

Introduction: Part One of “Hot Mess: A Homage to Chelsea Handler”

Introduction Part One: Lee is the Secret Identity of Hot Mess

“The life of Hot Mess chose me, I did not choose it.

“This Bitch”, “That Whore”, “Man Eater”, are just a few terms of endearment I have been called throughout my so far, short but colorful life. The truth is I may be all those and more but I am also a Chosen One. You may know me as Hot Mess.  I am in an elite group known as Train Wrecks who defy logic and are considered heroes of today’s world. Every person in my social circle, or how the millennial refer to them as my “squad”, is a fellow Train Wreck. We band together as one in our own sub-sect team known as the Disaster Divas.

There are many out there who falsely identify themselves as my alter-ego and there is no need to call them out on it. These ladies will say their proof of being Hot Mess is she woke up Sunday morning next to a naked stranger with a faux hawk, missing one shoe and photographic evidence that she puked on the side of a car outside her One-Night-Stand’s apartment building. Nice Try. Hot Mess has an iron stomach.

I am certain such greatness is no coincidence. Superpowers are not just stumbled upon but have to be assigned before a superhero’s secret identity is even born. My theory is The Fates, yes from Greek mythology, lay out the paths of these blessed souls, much like they did for the gods and mortals before my time. These old biddies are known for weaving the threads of destiny for everyone’s lives, including my own. They gather around a bubbling cauldron and vote who will have the honor of being apart of the next batch of glitter stained, panty-less, train wrecks or as we know them as, the heroes of the 21st century. Once they come to a unanimous decision it is time to destroy some futures. I am sure The Fates have decided on every person who will end be born a  god or transformed into a superhero’s The Fates decided when Peter Park would be bit by that radioactive spider, as I am positive they decided when I would chase far too many adderall pills with cheap vodka. A bug bite gave Spiderman his powers. Narcotics and liquor gave me mine.

Almost all females will go through a “party girl” stage. Those fleeting weeks/months/years tend to give them some delusion that they are part of the elite Train Wrecks. However, carrying a pair of heels in one hand while strolling down a busy intersection, still sporting last night’s ensemble on a few different occasions does not prove she is a Chosen One. No ordinary human can just claim she is a Train Wreck. Just like a random person cannot outright state they are apart of the Justice League. Bitch please.

Train Wreck superhero’s are similar to a comic book heroes in the sense that there is always drama consuming our lives. Just like any superhero we attract turmoil and are forever throwing ourselves in front of villains, who sometime disguise themselves as a Friend’s With Benefits. We tend to have a signature accessory, known as our emblem. Mine is a thumb ring. Do not judge.  All Train Wrecks have magic powers. My specialties include an unholy alcohol tolerance, the gift to con free shots from a bartender, and make grown men cry. Not to mention the talent of pouring a cocktail in the early morning hours while still insanely hung over.

The list of our powers is pretty extensive and have a slight variation depending on the person, but everyone in the Disaster Diva team has a  magical power called Aversion To Shame. We have made so many ill decisions in such a short time span our skin is thicker than the plastic container of a handle of Popov Vodka. A Disaster Diva does not dwell on the fact that she went home with what she thought was Chris Hemsworth but woke up groggily next to Freddy Krueger. She simply sneaks out of his apartment, purposely erasing any paper trail that could lead that thing back to her later on. The timing of her escapes usually coincides with the early hours of brunch, where a hangover mimosa is eagerly awaiting her. These types of mornings are so routine to Hot Mess if I shows up to brunch, or any sort of function for that matter, without a new story my team members assume I was on her death bed all week or an alien invaded my body.

            Every Chosen One has a trusty Sidekick or in my case a team of Sidekicks. She is the person who applauds Hot Mess when she snags the most mouth watering babe in a crowded bar or shakes her head when I may be about to pity fuck some schmuck. She can be credited for my dumb ass not being put behind bars or kidnapped. A Sidekick only mildly judges, rarely scolds, and fixes any problem with hard liquor. But most importantly Hot Mess would not know how to survive without her Sidekicks.

If a girl is a part of the Disaster Divas and she is obviously a best friend of mine and therefore she is a Sidekick. Disaster Divas are made up of some awesome heroes who, I can admit at times can be super villains. There has been no “official” designated leader, nor would we ever start the debate of who is the Superhero and who is the Sidekick. That would bring on some drama in my superhero group as it would in any, even in the all mighty Avengers. Although, lets face it Captain America is for sure the leader of the Avengers. Yeah, I said it.

Every team needs a captain. Avengers have Captain American; my girls have me, Hot Mess: Captain of the Disaster Divas. Anyone who is not the leader of their superhero team will just have to suck it up with the title of being a Sidekick, even if it is a full team. Batman and Robin are a “team”, but Batman is the fucking leader. That is why Robin is called the Sidekick.

There have been a solid handful of Sidekicks in my lifetime. This superhero has to have more than one Right-Hand-Woman, because the fact is hanging around me is quite exhausting. The weak ones fled when they could not handle my day-to-do crime fighting, or in my world drama pact hilarity. Some girls chose flight over fight, but the best of them, my Sidekicks who have chosen to participate in this collection of tales are my true friends and have proved to themselves and the world that they certainly have their own set of superpowers. How else would you explain my lack of a prison record?

One of the original Disaster Divas, who I consider my #1 Sidekick is Genesis. Poor girl has been apart of my shenanigans for over a decade. It is what happens when someone lives five houses down from me I suppose. She can recite most of my tales at the drop of a hat. If she was not physically on the scene she has been told the saga enough times she would have no problem accurately acting out the event. As any true Sidekick Genesis feels the need to make commentary and correct any discrepancies in the version of my tales. Along with Genesis remarks my other lovely Sidekicks have agreed to contribute their words to their participation in certain escapades. Rightfully so, if it was not for them this collection of stories would not exist. So, thank you ladies!

I do apologize in advance for the lack of villain commentary. When it comes to my former dalliances it is best to let sleeping dogs lie. No need to resurrect evil once it has already been slayed, am I right?

Although I am only a twenty-something year old girl my life as Hot Mess has been described as “hysterical” and “epic”, maybe the rest of the world will agree, but if not, who cares? I certainly do not, nor does the empty vodka bottle sitting next to me.

Here is to you Chelsea Handler! You are my idol, an inspiration to all, and hopefully one day a woman I could sip cocktails with while we swap the stories we did not see fit to put on paper.”

The Introduction Made You Laugh Out Loud? Then Be Sure To Click Here And Read More!

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

The Dedication For “Bigger The Bottle, Messier The Mistake”

I Dedicate This To…

To The Boy Who Got Away,

An infinite amount of apologies have gone unheard. My heartfelt pleas for absolution have continually fallen short. Maybe writing a novel will serve as my penance. There have been hearts broken for sport, boys who I used for toys, but the ones who I’ve dismissed I did not give another thought to. And then there is you… Weeks, months, and now years have come and gone while I still seek your forgiveness. Hopefully, this story will unveil how strong my affections were and explain that my unfortunate choices were not made lightly. Maybe you will never allow me to lay my heart at your feet or even see the world I created for you but a girl still has to try.

I dedicate this book to you, the boy who I am sorry I let get away.

Intrigued? Read The Entire Novel Here!

 

***As always, if there are any literary agents out there, or you are someone who likes what he/she is reading and knows of an agent or an editor please help make an author who has been writing novels since she was 10-years-old’s dream come true!***

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