Condem(ned).

For whatever reason, I decided it was a good idea to buy fishnet stockings.
No clue why, I don't even wear skirts or dresses or shorts or anything that shows my legs for that matter...so the decision to make that purchase is beyond me.
I blame the hangover.

Fast forward to Courtney realizing it was a dumb idea.
And so was the dress that was purchased with them.
Again...blame the hangover.

The decision is made to return said items.
I have my receipt, I'm within the 30 day return period.
Easy as cake, easy as pie.

Until the salesbitch makes a funny face and slaps a 4 roll of condoms on the counter.
"Are these yours?" she snarks.

Yeah.
They're mine.
Don't ask what possessed me to stick them in a pair of fishnets in the first place...

Thank God for Veronica.
"What? At least she's safe. Don't be embarrassed, Courtney. Fuck that shit!"

Too bad her friend defensiveness couldn't mask my bright red cheeks.

Lesson learned : check for prophylactics before returning merchandise...

Taken Out of Context...??

I love when I meet cute guys.
I love when the cute guys I meet love meeting me, too.

But I especially love it when they ask for my number.
And I give them wrong one.

And assume a random text the next day is them.

Texting sweet shit back and forth with someone you dig is fun.
Until you find out it's not who you thought it was.
It's the nasty old pervert guy from the bar you gave you tried to give a fake number to.
But he called you out.
Ya got caught.
And you felt guilty, so you begrudgingly obliged him with your real number.

It's true.
You only see what you want to see.

Just be sure the next time you get a text from a number you don't know, don't assume it's someone you want it to be.
Clarify identity in the beginning.

It prevents you from saying things like, "Get to me now. I need to see you."

No one ever needs a vacation in Creepsville...

I'll Drink To That...Or Not...

If bad luck was a marketable skill, I'd be Tony fuckin' Robbins.

Speaking, preaching, inspiring, gloating, and otherwise spouting off with a case of verbal diarrhea on how skilled, talented, and credible I was on the topic.

Most people list tons and tons and tonsssssss of credentials.
I get it.
The more the better.
But this...this case...only needs one example to illustrate my long time affair with shitty luck:

Welcome to the first night of court mandated DUI classes for driving under the influence.
(Yes, I got busted with a .15 behind the wheel...but not the point of the story...)

No car.
No license.
No insurance.
No business being on the road, behind the wheel, or alone driving a Chevy Suburban.
Basically, a ticking time bomb.
Menace to society.
Trouble on wheels.

My father was too lazy to drive me.
My grandparents can drive in the dark.
And everyone else is otherwise occupied.
But I NEED to attend that class.
So Pops tosses me the keys to his #1 love in life...no, not his wife you sick bastards...his truck.
I gladly accept.
Driving Dad's sweet SUV, blasting my music, and tasting the freedom which has been no more than a lingering memory to me is far too good to pass up!

Get to school alive.
Check.
No accidents.
Check.
No police incidents.
Check.

Go to class.
Check.
Sit through the horrendously boring 3 hour REQUIRED program.
Check.
Pacify the court.
Check.
Handle your "adult" responsibilities.
Check. Check. Check.

9:45 quickly rolls around and I can't get out of that class long enough.
I'm not a drunk.
I'm just a moronic driver who likes 3 shots of vodka before she turns over an automobile engine.
These people are nuts.
Crazy, in fact.
And of course I'm better than all of them.

Beeline to the parking lot.
Hop in the car.
Check all mirrors.
Clear.
Reverse.
BOOM!
See magical Honda suddenly appear behind the rear bumper.
Curse self every so vehemently before taking a deep breath and exiting the car.
No visible damage.
Chick driving Houdini's magically appearing Honda freaks.

"Oh my gosh! This is my parents car!"
I recognize said whiny bitch from my class.
"Double DUI offender, 18 month sentence to these classes, and my parents always cover for me."
Great.
I rammed the Marcia Brady of DUI school with my Dad's stupid "I need a trailer hitch because I'm a man, not because I have anything to tow" rear 6 added inches.

Me: Let's just call the cops and get a police report.
Me thinking: YOU DUMB BITCH! YOU'RE DRIVING ILLEGALLY!!!!

Marcia Brady: No, that's cool. Let's just exchange numbers just in case.

Me: Okay. Let's exchange license numbers, too.
Me thinking: YOU FUCKTARD! YOU DON"T HAVE A LICENSE!!!!

Marcia Brady: No, that's not necessary. It doesn't look like there's damage, but we should handle it off the record, just in case.

Me thinking: This bitch doesn't have a license, either.
Me: Good call!

Information is exchanged.
The crowd that has gathered, no doubt thinking, "thank GOD that wasn't my stupid ass" has cleared, and I climb my heavily beating hearted chest back into the truck.

Drive home is intense.
Telling Pops is hard.
He laughs.
No damage to his truck.
I call my Mom.
She laughs.
"Only you..." she mutters somewhere in the conversation.

Moral of the story:

If you're going to hit someone while you don't have a license, make sure they don't have one either.

And don't drive to DUI classes if you're not driving legally.

The End.

You Know You're Badass When...

...this legendary rock n' roll party superstar watches over your drunkass and gives your best friend advice on how to take care of you. Lemmy from Motorhead.

If you need a brief history:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy

"If the world faces nuclear disaster, the only surivors will be cockroaches and Lemmy."

Gamekilling 101.

In case there are morons out there, I offer a bit of advice:

If you're trying to hook up with one dude, don't show up with your best friend, who also happens to be a dude, and be wearing a fake engagement "safety" ring.

It kind of sends off the wrong impression.

Honestly.

Not that I know from experience or anything...I've just heard stories.

A Weekend Lament.

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is Friday and I'm very excited about it. That means no stinky mean people at work for the next TWO whole days! I'm so ecstatic. I love my weekends. It's when I load on gobs of makeup in a feable attempt to appeal to some stupid guy who'll probably be nothing more than a lapse in judgement in the long run and attempt to kill my liver with whatever free drinks the ugly guys at the bar will buy me. Perhaps I'll get slipped a roofie and get some action. And since I won't remember it, I won't have to deal with the emotional ramifications of remembering it and/or the societal obligated guilt that we're supposed to associate with one night stands! Oh well. Here's to a happy Friday. Cheers. Lord knows it's 5 o'clock somewhere...

Sincerely,

Dez Perate

An Open Letter To My OB/GYN:

To whom it may concern:

"Relax" is not a word I would associate with non-voluntary vaginal prodding. It is uncomfortable and a wee bit painful. I'm so ecstatic you lubed up the 6 inches of plastic before you rammed them up my babymaker...but let's be honest, it's not what one would consider to be an enjoyable experience.

Hurry it up! My God. Despite my best attempts to coax my vaginal muscles into some sort of submission during their yearly bout with medical torture isn't enough, it's cold...and I usually require some sort of meal or alcholic beverage before I let someone get up close an personal with my hoohaw. Next time, at least buy me a drink.

Don't talk to me about my job, friends, school, life, or pop culture. There isn't a damn thing you could say to me to make me forget about the Eiffel Tower being lodged in between my legs. And thank you, but I'd rather not spend the rest of my day associating my pap smear with how cute Brad and Angelina's baby is or what field I'd like to major in. As blase as the topics may be to you, I wouldn't like to flip through an "US Weekly" magazine and see the cute little face of baby Shiloh and be reminded of your uninvited foray into my body.

Be gentle, be fast, and be quiet.
That is all I ask.

Now...all that being said, I would like to thank you for one thing:

Being the most action I've got since February.

Jokes On You.

Dear "Friend",

Hope the sex was worth it. Herpes is pretty non-refundable. There is such thing as a code of conduct. I guess I can't blame you. You pretty much only speak "slutish" and "skankanese".

Sincerely,

Laughing Last.

------------------------------------

Dear "Dude",

So ya boned her. Big friggin' whoop. Trust me, it's not an exclusive club. But...you do get a free gift with purchase!!!! I don't want to ruin the surprise. Your doc should be able to elaborate. ;)

Sincerely,

isaidididntwannahavesexbecauseiwastoodrunkbutimeantyourpeniswastoosmall

Note To Drunken Self:

Don't get so hammered around a guy you actually like that you piss your pants on his carpet.

It's kind of...gross.

And urine?....NOT an aphrodisiac.

Sincerely,

Your Sober Counterpart.

The Bret Things In Life Are Free...

My heart belongs to a little 2 1/2 year old named Bret William Collins.

Yesterday we took the munchkin to the beach.
He and I were sitting in the backseat.
For some reason he decided to lean over and play with my hair.
He caught my gaze, and looked me dead in the eye.

"Courtney, you're so beautiful..."

Hands down, BEST compliment I've EVER received.

Many a man shall try to top him, but not a one shall succeed.

If you don't have a Bret in your life, be jealous.

Human Roadkill.

I hate pedestrians.

Nevada has the right idea by saying, "hey fucktard, if you're not on a crosswalk or sidewalk, you're part of the asphalt."

Now...if only California would hop on that train, we'd be in business!!

Fuck you stupid fucking fuckfaces who think it's cool to just saunter across the street whenever you damn well please. If you're going to try and go head to head with 5,000 pounds of steel, please at least run like a Mexican crossing the damn border and MOVE your fuckin' ass! Don't dilly dally like a fuckin' homo in bareass salute!!

Driving is hard enough with the morons IN the car, let alone the fools who think they own the road.

Bottom line:

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but my car will fucking kill you.

Juvenile Gonorrhea.

Thrown off by the title, eh?
Allow me to elaborate on the time I thought I caught a case:

I was probably 7 or 8 and I had the flu. My Mom dropped me off at my Grandma's and was off to work. My Grandma put me in the "sick" room upstairs with the TV and all the VHS tapes I could dream of! Yes, that's right...I said VHS. For all you youngins, that's what came before DVD and TiVO.

Well, A.D.D. kicked in after a few hours and I started looking through the books on the bookshelves knowing damn well I wouldn't understand a one of 'em. They were all college text books of the medical and science variety. Lord knows what business a runt like me had looking through the lot...

I found one entitled, "Reproductive Health".
My Grandma still has that almost 20 years later, by the way.
I started flipping through it, not really knowing what it was.
I was perusing through a section when I happened upon 3 letters:
"STD".

I thought it meant "something terribly dreadful". No, I wasn't a weird child or anything...
So I started trying to read as much as I could minus all the insane medical jargon incomprehensible to my innocent mind.

I remember very distinctly my Grandma reading me the label on the Pepto-Bismol the previous day when my Grandpa had an upset stomach, so I knew what some of the words were.

"Nausea". Check. I had that.
"Vomiting". Check. DEFINITELY had that.
"Uterin Cramps". Check. I thought that meant stomach aches.
"Fever". DOUBLE check. That's how I got to stay home!

Before long, I realized that my Mom and Grandma were wrong in my diagnosis.
I did not, in fact, have the flu.
I had something much worse.
Something that I thought was going to kill me.
Yeah, I didn't even bother reading down to the end.
Hypochondria is amazing like that.
But according to my medical evaluation of experienced symptoms, I had "Guh-nor-hey-uh".

I ran down the stairs to tell my Grandma.
She looked at me like I was speaking Mandarin.
I ran back to the room to grab my new buddy in disease diagnosis and hurried to show her.
I pointed to the line and started crying.
I didn't want "Guh-nor-hey-uh"!
Upon reading up on my symptoms and sickness, my Grandma started laughing.
I know, that insensitive bitch.
I was flabbergasted.
Here I was assuming I was dying from some disease I couldn't even pronounce, and she was laughing like I'd laid down some new comedic act.

Many minutes and tears later, hers of laughter, mine of sorrow, she wiped both of our eyes and told me to call my mother and tell her exactly what I'd told my Grandma.
My Grandma, that doll, even dialed the number for me.

"This is Mandy".
"Mommy, I have guhnorheyuh and Noni keeps laughing at me that I'm dying!" I started crying again. I could hear my Mom stiffle her laughter.
"Honey..." she was trying to soothe me. No such luck.
"You hate me and want me to die, too. Just like Noni!" I threw the phone down and ran upstairs to the room and hid under the covers.
My Grandma appeared a few minutes later with some chicken noodle soup and explained to me that there was no way possible on earth that I had "guh-nor-hey-uh".
She promised and swore on My Little Pony that I was suffering from a mild bout of the flu.
Nothing else.
That was enough for me.

My Mom later explained to me what Gonorrhea really was.
I didn't have a freakin' clue until 8th grade health class.
Then it all suddenly made sense.

Round of applause, people.
I never had "The Clap".

Drunk Dialing vs. Drunk Texting

Drunk texting offers proof.
Inbox/Outbox.
You see what was sent, you see what was received.

Drunk dialing is a mystery.
You see the amount of time spent on the phone.
But not the actual conversation.
20 minutes and 32 seconds.
Of what?
Who knows?
Most certainly not you.
Fuck.

Can someone please invent a little plug in that requires you to breathalize into your cell phone before it operates?

My God.

Simple invention...

Yet no one has ventured into that part of it.

If you're a tech genius...and you're reading this...please...get on it.
You'd save me lots of embarrassement.
Lots of "I'm sorry's".
Lots of "Did I really say that?!".
Lots of "Can you recap that convo for me?".

Lord.

Someone make my life amazing and invent.
Free blowjob to the first person who gets it done.

The (bleeding) Vagina Monologues.

I'm pretty sure my neighbors hate me. And ya know what? Can't say I blame them.

I have a job where I have to work real adult hours. Monday through Friday, 8-5. That unfortunately means I also probably need to sleep old people hours : Bed by 10pm. Lame, I know. But I need my beauty sleep...trust me!

Allow me to paint you a picture:

It's a hot spring night. Tuesday is slowly making it's way into the wee hours of a Wednesday morn. The sky is beautiful in all it's black glory, every so wonderously bedecked with shining stars. It's the perfect backdrop for one about to lay rest...

Add to that a chick sitting in her room, piss drunk, bitter about getting a year older, and the ugly sound of young kids partying and having fun.

Homie don't play dat.

Random ho in the middle of the street: Oh my GOD...I am sooooooooo wastoid!
Random ho #2: I like, loooooove drinking with older guys.
Random ho #3: I totally know! We don't have to ask anyone who's like, 21 or old or whatever to buy our Coor's Light for us!

Insert annoying as giggles.

Enter drunk bitch barrelling over to the open window to shed some much needed light on the scene in the street below...

Drunk old grouch: All of you shut the fuck up. I'm old, I'm tired, I'm drunk and bleeding out of my vagina!

Que laughter of all the party guests in the garage.

The buck stops there.
The drunken blackout makes it's appearance.

Stay classy.

Love is Evol.

What is love?

Let me tell you:

Love is what God gave the Catholics so they wouldn't feel guilty about sex.

That's a Court original.

I'll drink to that.
Amen.

Beautiful Babies and Bucks!

Having babies scares the piss outta me.

Not because I'm worried about my maternal instincts.
Or my finances.
Or even if I'm ready to be a Mom.
It isn't the pain of labor, either. (Helloooooo Epideral!!)

I don't want to have ugly monster looking babies.
Shallow, yes.
But it's a valid fear of mine!

So I've figured out the PERFECT way to find out what kind of kids I'll be popping out in a few years, and make some money in the process.

EGG DONOR!!

Spare me your moral bullshit. I've got bills to pay and a very important question that needs answering for the future of my potential offspring! Besides, for 6 grand, you can have my morals. I know it's supposed to be all hush hush and you never get to see what the little munchkins look like after they're born, but I'm going to include some sort of clause in my contract. I'll even knock off a couple hundred. Just one random picture a year later so I can see if I need to get my tubes tied to prevent the overpopulation of uglies.

I know, I'm a genius.

Age Before Booty.

Demi Moore was born in what...nineteen sixty beforenintendoexisted, making her like 200 or some ridiculously high number, right?

Yeah. If waiting until I'm a bonafide geezer means pulling a piece of ass as hot as Ashton Kutcher, gimme my knitting needles, mothballs, and rocking chair.

Grannie's gonna get her some.

Bow chicka bow wow.