Sabs' Crap-Comedy

Fucking Awkward But Without the Actual Fucking

I should not be given a cellphone when I’m drunk. Wait. No. Scratch that. I should not be allowed to communicate with other people. Ever.

 I don’t hate other people, I just kind of hate other people. And, this actually has little to do with who the other people actually are. Sure, millennials aren’t the most likable bunch in the world, but they seem to like each other even more than they like themselves. So what’s my problem, then?

Believe me, if I had the solution to awkwardness, I would’ve had the mere notion of friends during high school. For some reason, people think admitting this makes them cooler. Like if being unable to communicate with the rest of humanity were a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, there is zero doubt that I’m one of those people. I’ll have lengthy conversations about this vicious cycle: it’s hard for me to understand other human beings, their underlying motives and their body language (yes, I’m that stupid), which makes me awkward around almost everyone, so I come off as either quiet or inappropriate or, mysteriously, both; and this makes it even less enticing for me to want to interact with other living beings. In turn, I lose practice socializing and so I never want to leave my house. And why would I? I have everything I could ever need in my house… Except sex. No sex in my house. None at all. Nope, no orgasms here.

Oh, you think it’s easy just because I have boobs? Believe me. Getting laid is turning out to be impossible.

My mother saw this coming when I was a teenager. I think she feels bad for me. I mean, the woman has been proposed to more times than the number of people that have wanted to date me. So, when I was fourteen, she started giving me books on dating. Have they helped at all? I’m going to start referring to my vagina as the fortress of solitude. Forget about dying alone, I might die without ever having another orgasm. And to be completely frank, I’m not even sure if I’ve ever had one. A single one. One.

I think I’ve obliviously regained my virginity.

My guy friends tell me that getting laid is extremely easy for girls, that all I have to do is say that I want to have sex. Last night, I thought I’d give their advice a try: I was going to lose all sense of self respect and do exactly what they’d do if they were women. And now, I’m googling possible ways to become asexual.

It took me three whole hours of self-therapy (also known as binge drinking) to finally act like the slut I’ve always wanted to. So I did it. I tried to make my life a porno and failed miserably. Which, yet again, just goes to show us how misinformed pornography is. Guys don’t want slutty girls that wag their butts in an effort to twerk (because, let’s be real, who really knows how to twerk?). They say that’s what they want: the real life version of every female character from Blue Mountain State. But they don’t. I still don’t know what it is they do want, but it’s not that.

Maybe I’m just really ugly and no one has the heart to tell me. Or maybe, sexually empowered women scare people off. Or maybe, I have no game at all (I now understand the purpose of Tinder). Yep. That has to be it. I did something wrong last night. I said all the right things in the wrong way. Of course, I’d be the person to figure out a way to turn someone off by acting slutty. I don’t know why I ever had any sliver of doubt, morsel of uncertainty, a shred of hesitation, that I would be the one person in the world to come up with this method. I could be compared to a young Isaac Newton, discovering the laws of libido, one by one.

I give myself way too much importance.

So… If my vagina is the fortress of solitude, would a penis be Superman or Kryptonite?

 

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