Girls rule and Shakers drool

I’m at the beach on a perfectly glorious and sparkly day.  A day when the skies are blue, the water is clear, a slight breeze is blowing to keep the air comfortable as the bright sun warms my bathing suit clad body and…

I have to pee.  I have to pee so badly that I’m doing the pee dance on the beach, which is covered with spring breakers who are open mouthed gaping at me.  I have to pee so badly that I’m singing songs about peeing to my friend as she sits on the beach chair next to me trying to hide. I have to pee like I just drank a quart of vodka (because I did).   Normally I would just go in the ocean to handle my urine dilemma but because it’s still early on in the beach season, I cannot.  The water is the temperature of melting icicles.  The water is so cold that even the kids aren’t in it.  I am not freezing off my hoo-ha to pee with the fishes.  Wait…

 

I’m in luck.  Just behind on us on the beach is a local bar/restaurant.  I can pee there.  Yay, I can pee, I can pee, I can peeeeeeee.  I grab my beach bag, make my friend rise from her hiding spot, and hobble over to the pee place because my legs are clenched as to prevent leakage.  Up the stairs we go, through the bar, and head to the bathroom only to find…a pee line; a pee line with about 6 people waiting.  Don’t these people know how badly I have to let loose?  Apparently not because I’m now being told that there is one line for 2 toilets.  I might have to squat right here and pee in the line. Wait, it’s moving a little bit so I’ll just keep on hopping from one foot to the other - In my bathing suit - In a bar.  Standing here jiggling my wares, the line is inching closer to the actual potty place and I see that one of the bathrooms is designated shakers.  Yes, it’s I exactly what I think it is.  It’s the dude’s toilet room.  We are sharing the shitters.  I’m completely good with that.  I’ll take a bucket, please and thank you.  Just move this damn line.  Please. 

I’m the next person in line.  I’m the next person in line.  YIPPEEEE, I get to pee soon!  At last, a woman is exiting from the shakers bathroom and I’m running toward the door and…bam.  Some shaker is pushing his way passed me yelling “I’m glad I ain’t a girl” in what he thinks is a cutesy sing-song voice.  Wait, what?  What just happened?  What in the actual fuck just happened? I’m looking at my friend because she is a big ole gun toting, scary bitch.  She’s drunk.  She’s got nothing.  I have to handle this.  I chase that dirty shaker right into the bathroom and scream directly into his shit eating grin wearing face that we are all waiting in this line for whichever bathroom opens next so we can squeeze out our business.  This bitch is laughing, well not just laughing, drunk assed guffawing.  I will sit my ass down on this toilet and pee right in front of this monkey-toed ass-wipe.  Wait, he’s pushing the door shut with me on the outside.  Shit, shit, shit. I lost.  I’m just going to stand outside the bathroom door and taunt him the entire time he’s doing his thing and while he’s leaving the bathroom and now as he walks through the even longer line of wanna-be pee-ers.  The pee-ers are clapping and yelling and calling him names.  Solidarity amongst the bathroom crew is die-hard. 

 

Shit.  In all the excitement, I DIDN’T PEE.  I’m standing here watching as some other shaker just went into my bathroom.  He just walked right in there.  The bathroom I had just fought acted like a complete ass for is no longer mine.  As a tiny bit of pee leaks into my bathing suit bottom, I think to myself it sucks to be a girl.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Be afraid. 

 

I'm an asshole and I have an opinion

In my opinion…opinions don’t matter

The definition of an opinion is: a view or judgment formed about something, not necessarily based on fact or knowledge.

Don’t hate me.  I don’t know.  My opinions get me in trouble. 

I don’t know what I think.  I don’t know what I believe.  I’m not even sure I believe it.
Maybe I’m a fake, a phony, a hypocrite, a liar.   I don’t know. 

My opinions are strong.  That’s me, opinionated.  I always have been.  Since I was a child I’ve known exactly what I liked or didn’t like about a situation, a person, a hairstyle, clothes, ideas and I’m quick to share them with anyone who will listen. Are my opinions right?  Can opinions be right or wrong?  Who cares?  I don’t.  They’re just opinions and I have no fucking clue.

*Note – because of my strong and what are considered somewhat negative opinions, I am learning to keep most of them to myself (meds) but when asked, I am truthful and might go a bit too far.  

I have hated Taylor Swift for so long that I no longer remember why.  My passionate un-love for karaoke and the people who sing it is so deep that you’d think I had a parent killed in an untimely karaoke accident.  People who watch shows like the Bachelor and Bachelorette make me want to punch them.  Why are my opinions on such trivial matters so strong?  In reality, I don’t care if you sit in your underwear, on fire, and participate in any of these activities. 

 My opinions are important to me, I think.  They were at least important to me at one time.  Deep down I wonder if still actually believe them or do I just repeat them because it’s what I know. 

I will create an opinion based on my relationship with person requesting my opinion, or based on my personal reaction to the question.  How did the question make me feel on that particular day? My opinions are based on attitude, emotions, thoughts, nothing.  It depends.  I change my opinion constantly.  It keeps me busy. 

I cannot stand her. Will she ever shut up? I want to stab her in the eye with my fork, repeatedly. What is in her hair? What’s wrong with her toes? She’s fatter than me.  Does she have a mirror? Those shoes are ugly. Her husband is an asshole too. I bet their marriage won’t last. How does he put up with her nagging ass? I bet they never have sex. Why are these people talking to me? 

-          Opinions floating in my cranium within 15 seconds of meeting someone new

Totally close minded opinions but because of the situation or my mindset at the time, I hate her and I hate her stupid husband too.

I will totally answer a question in regards to my opinion with a sarcastic and totally false answer because I think it’s funny.  Is this lying?  I don’t think it so because I know it’s true and that’s really all that counts, I think. 

 For example, a simple question at party –

Q: “What’s your opinion on porn”? (This would totally happen in my circles)

A: “The only porn I watch is the porn I star in”.

I will continue to have a 20 minute in-depth conversation in regards to porn; neither pro nor con, just information.  People who know me will know that is totally me being a complete asshole.  It’s what I do. The problem is that I have no problem flapping my facehole with strangers who do not understand the glory and complexity of the asshole that is me so these people have now formed the opinion that I am a porn queen.  I am not.  I don’t watch porn, I’m not a porn advocate, and I’ll even go as far as to say that I’m completely against porn.  Or am I?  Regardless, I go for the joke and sometimes I pay for it later because I’m forced to stick with that opinion because, eeh gads, I don’t want to be labeled a hypocrite.  Alas, people continue to think I am who I am not. 

My opinions are important to me, I think.  They were at least important to me at one time.  Deep down I wonder if still actually believe them or do I just repeat them because it’s what I know. 

My snap judgment opinions are often times mood based.  Totally fucked but I can’t help it.  Say its day 1 of the pre-shark-week battle in my uterus and I casually get asked what I think of a restaurant.  My answer will be something to the effect of “I don’t have money for restaurants” or “I don’t give a shit about food” said with a snarly growl and saliva dripping from my fangs.  I’m pretty sure this isn’t nice and I will usually apologize later and reopen the subject for discussion.  Sometimes it does get skipped over and these people are left believing that I hate my favorite get-my-grub-on place because…vagina. I need a warning sign or a shirt that says “Don’t ask me shit” for these days.  It’s no fault of the question asker but when I’m in a mood, nobody goes unscathed.  My opinions are scary as hell during my wrath. 

If some mouth breathing jack-wagon I barely consider asks my opinion on something, they are going to get a bullshit answer and I don’t give a rat’s ass if they believe me.  This can be a boss, a mutual friend, a co-worker, or someone I know casually.  I will answer the question like the asshole that I am.  I mean let me be honest here, if some fuck-nugget is asking me about a bar that I like, the opinion I give of that bar will be false.  Do I want to see aforementioned fuck-nugget chugging a cold one at a place where I hang; trying to chat me up while I’m enjoying a night out with the girls; obtaining the knowledge that I drink and swear more than the average trucker? Hell.  No.   In addition, if said person asks what I think about anything, I will totally make up some bizarre opinion just to fuck with them.  Remember, I don’t like this person. They can think I believe in candy cane people, ghost fucking, and the curse of the horse cock.  It’s not my job to care what they think.  This too, gets me knee deep in the hoopla.   

Don’t hate me.  I don’t know.  My opinions get me in trouble. 

I don’t know what I think.  I don’t know what I believe.  I’m not even sure I believe it.
Maybe I’m a fake, a phony, a hypocrite, a liar.   I don’t know. 

I have been known to take the opposite opinion of someone just to be different.  I am a fan of playing devil’s advocate. This causes my opinions to be misconstrued.  Misconstrued by people because people are stupid.  Yes that’s my opinion, a fairly accurate one but my opinion all the same.  Just because I take the opposing side in a discussion does not mean that I necessarily agree with the opposing side.  Hello, dumbass.  If I am to be completely honest, I have been known to come off with “Oh, I love that” just because it’s not your thing.  I’m not saying its right or even sane, I’m just saying that I’ve done it and I’m sure I’ll do it again. 

Sometimes I just give absolutely zero shits about the subject being discussed and instead of shutting my fat mouth, I do it. I do that thing where I shout out to the world (or a few people) my opinion based on totally nothing. “I totally hate that and I think you’re an asshole for liking it”.  Not only do I give my opinion on the subject I will also make you feel a douche for your opinion, just because. These are the opinions I vehemently defend because when I make up shit, I’m going to back up my shit.

Don’t hate me.  I don’t know.  My opinions get me in trouble. 

I don’t know what I think.  I don’t know what I believe.  I’m not even sure I believe it.
Maybe I’m a fake, a phony, a hypocrite, a liar.   I don’t know. 

More often than not I get off my ass and base an opinion on actual thought and information.  (I care about stuff) These opinions are not to be confused with fact because interpretations of information are subjective.  Most people do not comprehend this simple concept. If it’s a fact; it is not an opinion. An opinion can be based on some facts.  Wake up, John Q Public, and pull your oversized head out of your ass.  When it comes to subjects like politics, religion, current events, and news, I believe people’s opinions should be based on knowledge gained through research and some facts.  In order to have an intelligence based conversation that includes opinions, I prefer to be aware of some shit. If your opinion in these instances is based on some bullshit story you heard in the lunchroom at work, on social media or that you were told by your granny on her deathbed?  I have no patience for you and I will not engage. 

My opinions are important to me, I think.  They were at least important to me at one time.  Deep down I wonder if still actually believe them or do I just repeat them because it’s what I know. 

I am not usually (never) open to other people’s opinions.  I don’t give a fuck what you think.  Sure I’ll listen and nod my head and I might even value your opinion but that’s what it is, your opinion. I’ve created my opinions and they’re what I believe.  If you believe something different than I do, that’s great.  Don’t go all door-to-door religion salesperson on me.  Sometimes, (All the time) I change my opinions.  It’s human nature, I think.

Don’t hate me.  I don’t know.  My opinions get me in trouble. 

I don’t know what I think.  I don’t know what I believe.  I’m not even sure I believe it.
Maybe I’m a fake, a phony, a hypocrite, a liar.   I don’t know. 

My opinions while loud, snarky, bitchy, often totally off base, sometimes frightening, and most times total bullshit, are still my opinions. Do not take them literally and don’t get all freaked out about them.  Don’t sweat anybody’s opinion for that matter.  If you don’t want or can’t handle an opinion, don’t ask for it. Depending on my mood (no meds), you might still get mine. Remember, opinions change.  Does it make us all hypocrites?  Even though I think I don’t know, I don’t think so.  And so what if it does.  It’s only an opinion. 

• Tea in a can tastes like ass
• I love cake and ice cream
• Books should be bound or they aren’t books
• Country music blows dead hobos
• I prefer short hair on both men and women
• I believe that most romance movies are corny, unbelievable, and boring
• Animal hair is unsanitary and it skeeves me
• I believe there is good in people
• I think karma is real
• Life is too short for fake cheese
• My favorite color is brown
• Epic, douche canoe, cray cray, bae, boo, and awesome sauce, are overused and ridiculous
• Valentine’s Day, Grandparent’s Day, Sweetest Day, Kid’s Day and all the other made up days are bullshit, not holidays
• People who base their political beliefs on what they’ve heard and not what they know to be true, are fucking idiots
• People who put too much faith into organized religion are scary
• I don’t understand people who say that water tastes badly
• Real butter; there is no substitute
• In some weight-loss before/after pictures I prefer the before
• In most instances I don’t find tattoos attractive
• Barry Manilow pumps my non-existent gonads 

These are my opinions.  Might they piss you off?  Might they be totally ridiculous?  Sure. Suck it and move on. 

The definition of an opinion: a view or judgment formed about something, not necessarily based on fact or knowledge.

Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn’t throw this out there: “Opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got one and everyone thinks everyone else’s stinks”.  – While corny and lame (my opinion), there’s a reason it was created. 

I don’t know if there are others who think like I do but if you don’t, do me a favor and keep your opinions to yourself. 

 PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, currently a temp, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.

Pissed and it's my fault

Today I am pissed. 

Not like most days when I wake up with something to bitch about.  It’s not like that at all.  Today I am pissed with myself.  I try like hell to keep my name out of other’s mouths.  I do.  I avoid people, I avoid conflict, and I avoid bullshit.  As soon as something gets bull-shitty?  I’m out. 

Today I am pissed because I allowed myself to get involved with bullshit. I try to be two things, honest and nice.  I try my best not to hurt people’s feelings.  I may not be the most patient person and after I down a few, I’ll tell you exactly what I think about you but only if you ask. I’m nice until it’s time not be nice.  I will treat you how you treat me.  I am pissed because I don’t even like doing that.  I’m just done.  My time shouldn’t be wasted with superfluous and mundane bullshit that’s passed off as being “adult”

I am tired of being nice to people that I can’t stand because it’s supposed to be mature.  Fuck that.  I don’t find it mature to spend time with people I can’t stand.  I find it nonsensical, useless, and a waste of time.  When I’m invited to a social gathering and fucks I wouldn’t trust to use my bathroom are attending, I don’t want to play. 

I understand the art of being nice in work situations or in public situations.  That’s a given. I put my phony face on and wear that shit all damn day.  There are people I have to deal with because of a marriage and people I have to fake it with for work but I will no longer spend my precious free time with people I want to set on fire.  Am I immature?  I don’t think so.  I think I’m smart.  I think I’m a time saver. 

The whole pretending to like someone for another person doesn’t work.  In fact, it fucked with part of my weekend.  I missed out on some good times with fantastical friends because I believed a lie.  I actually believed that someone gave a shit about my feelings and was giving me a lil respect.  Not so much.  I was expected to hang with people I don’t dig, lie about not digging them, and take the backseat to them.  No. 

I missed out on seeing two people I adore.  I didn’t go to a party I was invited to.  I didn’t go to one of my favorite band’s gig.  I didn’t do any of these things because, people.  I hate people.  Every damn I try to step outside the box a dumb motherfucker crushes the box.  Now there are useless fucks out there with my name on their tongue.  My beautiful name on nasty, twisted tongues because I tried to be honest and nice.  Nicely & honestly telling people that I have no use for them in my life would have had two-fold positivity:

1 – I wouldn’t be pissed today

2 – You could be eating chicken & waffles instead of reading this

I’m not sorry that I don’t want to deal with certain people.  That’s my choice.  It’s not that often that I open my tiny circle and head to a public setting.  When I do, it must be with people I respect, can laugh with, and who just completely rock.  If I leave my comfort zone, it’s to have a kickass time with people I enjoy.  There’s no other reason.  Not to pick up men, not to argue, not to avoid, not to be hidden, and it’s for damn sure not so I can be a phony, plastic, bitch.   It’s to enjoy myself; period, end of story.


PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.

I am an adult and I hate kids

I am an adult.

 

I hate kids.

The diapers, the vomit, the baby wipes, the lack of sleep, trying to understand their non-verbal signals, the anxiety, the helplessness, the feedings, the wishing their pain could be taken away

I hate kids.

The tantrums, the odors, the crying, the whining, the questions, the sniveling, the shouting, the nightmares, the backtalk, the messiness

I hate kids.

Telling them no, punishments, homework, teaching, listening, lying to them, lying for them, protecting them

 

I hate kids.

School pick-up lines, fulfilling their every need, sleepovers, explaining death, giving them freedom

I hate kids.

Untangling of knots, shoe tying, their lack of listening, sneaking, pickiness, stubbornness, incessant gibberish, loudness, irritability, attitude

I hate kids.

Teaching them bicycle riding and kissing boo-boos, spending money on their toys and games that are played with for 3 days and then hidden amongst the dust bunnies under the bed, morning wake-ups, buying clothes that they pick out only to find the clothes buried along with the useless toys

I hate kids.

Losing of shoes, socks, hats, and other pieces of clothing, sticky surfaces in every room of the house, hair filled brushes, toothpaste in the sink, indescribable gunk in the bathtub that will never, ever come off

 I hate kids.

 
Paint, crayon, and pen on the walls, crayons left in the hot care that melted into the interior, the unknown goo that takes over the handle of every item with a handle, watching them walk and watching them fall
 

I hate kids.

Messy, uncombed hair, the dirty fingernails, the stinky feet, teaching them to read, seeing them fail, explaining life

I hate kids.

 

Mean kids, teaching them to defend themselves, listening to the same song over and over, watching the same movie over and over, playing the same game over and over, singing the same rhymes over and over

 

I hate kids.

The birds and the bees, gym class, being happy, teaching life’s lessons, embracing independence, overcoming embarrassment, becoming a successful member of society

I hate kids.

Long explanations, disapproval of choices, decision making triumphs, arguments, growing up

I hate kids.

Being in bed by 10pm because the kid will be awake by 6am, not being able to go out with friends on a school night because mom duty takes priority, not being able to party like a rock star because those damn kids need a parent, being responsible

 

I hate kids.

 

I hate it all and yet I wouldn’t drag my ragged, overworked ass out of bed each morning without expecting it.

The sheer innocence of my child, the not knowing that each of these things is slowly driving me insane is what keeps me from trading her to a stranger for half a candy bar and a postage stamp.

Having a child has forced me to accomplish things I never thought I would.  I have looked at things differently than I ever have.  I have discovered creative ways to explain, teach, and assist my child.  I have become a person I never thought I would be.  My child comes first when I think and do.  My child has taken over my life.

 I hate kids.

My kid is a life sucking beast who will steal my last breath and my will to live.

And she is worth it.

I am an adult.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.

My Self-Imposed Sexual Sabbatical

I don’t remember the exact moment my sabbatical from sex began.  Or even why it happened.  I love the sex.  After my divorce several years ago, I had all the sex.  I was sexy in every corner of my fair city.  Ask anybody.  Or everybody. I had a blast.  This time, not so much.

After my last break-up I thought I’d once again hit the sexy party girl road.  I didn’t.  The comfort of men was somehow not so comforting this time around.  I had had enough.  Enough bullshit. I felt, I don’t know, empty?

Empty and angry
Angry at men
Furious with men

Men lied, and cheated, and lied again.  I couldn’t get past the anger and feeling of betrayal toward men, not even for one night.  How could any man excite me when every man made me cringe?  I dreamt about it, the sex.  I wanted so badly to be held, to be touched, to be told I was wanted, needed. But the thought of actually letting a man touch me was like a blow to the gut.  I couldn’t do it.  I have a couple of close male friends who took the brunt of my non-sex-man-hating-anger during this period.  I love them for that.  I truly do.  I had to get over this non-trusting of men.  I had actual hatred towards men.  I knew this was not normal.  Not all men deserved my hate.   It was making me miserable.  It was making me miserable to be around.

Eventually men happened.  The sex happened.  I found little joy.  I found lots of problems.  I could not be happy.  The men weren’t making me happy.  They used to make me happy.  What had happened to me?  The touching, the kissing, the handholding, the closeness, none of it made me feel like I wanted to feel.  Why wasn’t it working?  It had to work.  I wanted to have sex.  I wanted company.  I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be like everyone else.

I pushed it all away.  The men, the sex, all of my chances for happiness were pushed away.

I woke the fuck up

I was no longer happy with me.  Self-esteem no longer existed within me. The emptiness I felt was because of me.  Not happy with me - I was not familiar with that sentiment.   It had been years since I had been unhappy with me.  I like me. This did not feel like me.  This was wrong.  Something had to change. I had to be happy with me before I could be happy with a man; before I could have sex.  For me to be happy I had to start doing things for myself.  It began with little things: going to dinner, hanging with friends, plans that didn’t revolve around a man.  Then the things got bigger: concerts, day trips, festivals, theme parks, vacations.

I was having fun
With my family
With my friends  

There were no men.  No men to hate.  No men to distrust.  No men to make me feel like less of a person. No men to bash my self-esteem.  No sex.  None.  This was a good thing.  I needed time to like me and to find my sexy.  I needed to feel worthy of being liked.  I needed to do all of that so I could stop the man hating.  I needed to do all of that so I could move forward.  I needed to do all that so I could enjoy the sex if and when I allowed it to happen.

Fast-forward

I like me.  I cried, I laughed, I had fits, I hid from people, and I stomped the hell out of my feet to get here.

I cried but I did all the things

But, I like me.  It was worth it.  Because I like me, I no longer hate the men.  I determined that my man issues are worse than I originally thought.  Trust issues.  I still have problems believing that men (people) are sincere, about anything. I continue to believe that all men have ulterior motives.  This is my problem. There's no one to blame.  It's just me. Yes, I am damaged.  Yes, I am working on it.

I continue to abstain from the sex. Once it wasn’t a huge deal; it wasn’t a huge deal.  And I’m terrified. I'm absolutely dark, creepy house at the end of the block when I was 6, terrified.  It’s true. I’m scared shitless to allow a man to touch me. I can’t even imagine sex. No night time put-me-to-sleep-smiling thoughts, no sexy after I hit the REM sleep, no daydreams of hot, half naked men on the beach rubbing me down and then "you know".  It’s almost as if sex no longer exists for me.  It’s not easy. It's sad.  I am in pain. I am raw.  Sex will hurt me both mentally and physically.

I still have a sense of humor.  Always a sense of humor.

I want it; I need it.  Once I believe what comes out of the face-hole of man, the sexy-time issue will be a non-issue and all will be well.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid.

Valentine's Day-PPB Style

Until I was 10 years old, Valentine’s Day was a day in which my classmates and I exchanged goofy little cards that we dropped into handmade pouches taped to the sides of our desks.  Some years one of the not so frazzled class moms would bring in cupcakes or we would munch on some of those dry, powdery conversation hearts after we tried to create every dirty sentence we could out of them.  That was the extent of it.  My parents probably went out.   I remember a heart shaped box of chocolate or two.  I was usually the recipient of such a box but Valentine’s Day really was a non event in our household. 

In 1980, the year of my 10^th birthday, my baby sister was born.  On February 14^th.  In the years that followed, February 14^th was my sister’s birthday, not Valentine’s Day.  We were special now.  Within the confines our immediate family, Valentine’s Day fell behind the back burner and onto the floor.  It was fine with us.  Birthdays meant cake.  Cake is good.  This was not a negative happening.  There was still the goofy card exchange at school, lots of heart shaped crafts in art class, and I still received the obligatory heart box of chocolate each year.  Now though, there was a reason, a real reason, for us to celebrate.   We were the coolest.  We had a heart baby. 

When my baby sister reached school age, the months of January and February were spent peddling cookies for the local scouts.  Selling (and buying) cookies took a significant amount of time, energy, money, and patience.  Valentine’s Day continued to hide out in the background.  Cookies were now considered a valentine treat. I was too old for the school parties at this point and after the scout cookies and a birthday party, it took no trouble at all to brush away this silly heart holiday.  

Now in my head all of this non Valentine activity made perfect sense.  I was a realist.  My heart, though, had a different wish.  It wished for one of those romantical, lovey-dovey, 10 minute kiss on the balcony, dinner, drinks, dancing, and a walk on the beach nights all rolled into one heart shaped evening of bliss.  When I traded in living with the family unit for a place of my own, I decided I would still celebrate my sister’s birthday but I had to start working on my dream date.  My Valentine's Day dream date.  

No so much.  We had moved from Chicago to the Daytona Beach area.  February in Daytona Beach isn’t romantic.  It isn’t even remotely romantic.  There’s this little two week event in February called Speed Weeks.  Ever heard of the Daytona 500?  Every year around the 14^th of February is when that race occurs.  That means the entire county in which I live is filled about two hundred thousand (or so) extra folks.  Who wouldn’t want to travel to Florida in February? Who didn’t want to bask in the sun while whichever snow riddled city they had traveled from was frozen over?  Every restaurant, bar, beach, club within 60 miles was filled to the max with race fans.  There are no quiet romantic dates on Valentine's Day in this town.  

  

What the Fuck?

Once I was married there were dinners out of town, overnight trips, last minute chocolate, gas station roses, movies, numerous cute but useless stuffed animals, and even edible underwear to celebrate the holiday of hearts.  Stuff I planned because I wanted to go somewhere and the holiday was the excuse.  Not the undies or the gas station roses, the other stuff.  Deep down I had no interest in this ridiculous red and pink holiday of hearts but the non-stop commercials promising diamonds and kisses were wearing me down.  Where in the hell was my chocolate diamond, damn it? 

I never did get a chocolate diamond.  Hell, I never got any diamond.  I have countless numbers of little fuzzy white bears holding red satin hearts.  I don’t even know who they’re from anymore but I have them.  Was Valentine’s Day ever unpleasant?  Not that I recall.  It just wasn’t the hyped up version of all things love that I had created in my head from seeing all the propaganda.  It never will be.

Now that I’m older, Valentine’s Day itself, means almost zero to me.  It’s my sister’s birthday.  It’s a race day.  It’s cookie day.  It’s just another day.  I have been married, single, dating, madly in love, bored to death, and divorced on Valentine’s Day.  None was better than the rest.  As for my dream date, it will happen one day.  I don’t care what day it is.  Love is love.  Infatuation is infatuation.  If it’s right, romance will happen when it’s meant to, not on a day covered in pink and red hearts. 

This year, I’ll be spending the Valentine holiday with the love of my life.  My daughter.  A friend and her son will be joining us.  It will be special.  It will be filled with love.  There will be food.  There will be booze.  It will be a joyous occassion.

Life is good.

In all seriousness I would pass on the dream date completely if I could find a man who could make a reservation without asking me a single fucking question.  A goofy card would be cool too. 

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid. 

 

A letter to some boys

Dear Men boys,

I like most of you.  I do.  A lot.  I know that one of you out there was made just for me.  “A good man.   A true man.  A man to love me for sure”. (Thank you, Bette Midler for those eloquent words)  I joke about you and laugh about the things I think you’re good for and how dumb I think you are but the truth is, I really like you.  You are a necessity in life; as a partner but also as a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a coworker, and sometimes a backbone.  I also joke about women.  I’m famous for my “vagina=crazy” quote, and I’m quick to discuss how women are bitches.  In short, I fuck with all the sexes equally.  This letter is not to man-bash.

I’m writing to tell you something that has been bothering me for months.  I tried to ignore it.  I really did.  I tried not to judge you.  It thought that it really wasn’t my place.  The longer it went on, the more disgusted I became.  You all didn’t commit the heinous infraction I’m about to describe.  Many of you did. 

The bile is rising to my throat right now thinking about it.  I’m making “that” face as I type.  That face I make when I smell spoiled milk, rotting potatoes, or dog shit that has been frozen and thawed.  That face. 

Let me try and explain this to you without breaking down, crying my head off or calling each of you a sickening fuck.  You deserve all of the above but name calling solves nothing and I’m ugly when I cry.  In short, my long-term relationship ended.  As soon as one day after the relationship ended, I began receiving private messages on social media from you.  Not all of you. Just a few.  As the months went by, more of you joined the cluster of fools. Today it’s almost every man boy on my friends list.  Some of you are casual and cool, some flirty and cute, and some of you are downright fucked in the head with messages blatantly asking for sex and/or sexual favors.  All of you hiding and messaging in private.

It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, does it?  I’m single, why not?  Why shouldn't I enjoy messages from men boys who are supposed to be my friends?  Should be a great fit, no? A small portion of the “why not” is because each one of you are married or in what appears to be serious relationships. This makes you not only an asshole but the lowliest scum that exists.  The reason your partners don’t give it up to you or act the way you’d like them to is because they know.  Women aren't stupid.  But keep looking for other women to fill that hole that you caused.  I bet it’s working fantastically for you.  That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m not judging.  I don’t know your situation. 

You could have an open marriage, could be separated, or it could be that you are a fucktarded simpleton who needs to be wanted by more than one woman (the last option being the most possible choice).  I don’t care.  That’s your issue.  The real reason I’m writing this here story of woe is to ponder aloud, this:

Why did you message me? Was I so hot? Did you like me?  Did you want me? That’s what you wanted me to think.  You wanted me to think that you thought I was so freaking awesome that I would get my head all big and I’d fall for your insipid bullshit.  “He thinks I’m cute” so I’ll give him a piece of ass.   Those thoughts lasted a hot minute.  “Is it because I’m fat?” was my next thought. Big girls are easy.  Ain’t that right?  You thought my self-image was shot because I was dumped and overweight?  Did you figure that my self-esteem was so low you could get a quick roll with me and maybe even boost my self-esteem in one shot?  You’d have been doing me a favor. Right?  

Next this - “What kind of sleazy bag of shit do these men boys think I am”?  I couldn’t figure it out then and I still can’t.

I was either married or in a (what I thought was monogamous) relationship the entire time I knew the lot of your sorry asses. What in the hell brought you to my inbox? Was it because I shared memes that were risqué or posted stuff that had the words “fuck” (OMG) or “cunt” (I must be a whore), or because some of the posts were of a sexual nature? I enjoy smut talk and goofy assed memes about sex. Must mean I like to fuck married men. Makes complete sense. If this is your mentality, it’s no wonder you’re looking for some strange; your partners hate you because you’re idiots. Ridiculous. You all are ridiculous. I blog. I discuss sex all the time. I also discuss poop, farts, shopping, my kid, and a myriad of subjects. Do these posts define me? No. They don’t. They are sarcastic and exaggerated posts for entertainment purposes. Period. If any of you actually had taken the time in the 10+ years that I knew most of you, you’d know this. You didn’t. You suck. You suck as human beings and you suck at being men.

Not one of you asked me out. Like on a date. It was all about sex or what you could get from me. I wasn’t even good enough for an affair. Just some whore you could hit once and hide away from your seemingly normal lives.

I began to link numerous blog posts from my page to my personal feed about cheaters, what I wanted from a man, and anything I could find that might explain to you that I was not going to be your fuck-buddy. Not then, not now, not ever. This was the passive-aggressive approach but I didn’t have the time or energy to write each of you individually (yes, there were that many of you). Not to mention, it
was publicity for my blog. Can’t blame a chick for marketing. I also figured that if you were messaging me, you were probably harassing the shit out of other women on your friends list. My giant head isn’t so overgrown that I believed I was some “special” whore. The purpose of this letter is not to “out you” or get you into trouble. It is to try and explain how your behavior made me feel. Like shit. That’s how I felt. That’s how I feel. Like a useless waste of a human being. You thought I was weak and would cave and perform sexual favors because you showed me some attention. You thought wrong. I felt disrespected. I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt sad. I felt confused. I still feel all those things. Add mad to those things and that's what I feel now. Mad that I allowed a bunch of losers, posing as men, to make me feel that way. Never once did I feel lucky or excited because I special enough to receive your messages. I wasn't impressed. I laughed about it with my friends. I joked that you were sick, desperate losers. All the while, I felt I was being sexually assaulted without any physical contact.

I continued conversations with some of you because I couldn’t even believe it was happening. I had to keep responding because I couldn’t fathom that it was real. I’m a writer at heart so I also knew that one day I’d use your sad, tired pick-up lines disguised as messages, in a writing. I didn’t think that the day would come so soon but I needed to get this out there. For me, and for all of the other women that you deem your personal booty message whores.

In closing, if any of you half-wit fucks are actually able to read this – FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me feel like a piece of shit. Fuck you for all the other women you made feel like shit. Fuck you for not having enough respect for your wife or significant other to be a MAN. And just fuck you.

Sincerely,

A stand-up bitch who isn’t taking your bullshit

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid.