ENTER TO WIN.

Based on my Twitter post which has gotten RT’d out the ass, I have decided to have a contest. Someone please prove to me I’m not the only one with pathetic taste in men/women. What’s your worst ex experience? If more than five people comment, the person with the worst experience wins a SIGNED Alex Stevens poster. (signed by Alex Stevens, of course). And a mix CD from me.

For my shitty ass experience, check after the jump. No ~HOT pics~ or anything (if you want hot pics and a hot trailer, click here to see the pics and trailer from Eurocreme’s POLICE BOY)…just personal bullshark. Enjoy. Have yrself a catharsis.

Within the span of one hour I learned that my ex-girlfriend (yes, this is still Mr. Brian Ritz speaking…I have a dark past, k?) is even more of a crazy psycho than previously thought. After we broke up about two years ago, she continued to harass me with threatening phonecalls, defamatory blog posts using my full name (it is in fact these posts which led my extended family to disown me), and stalking tendencies. Once, while out for drinks with my friend Leah, this crazy whore left me eighteen text messages which increased in craziness. “You are such a bitch.” “You fucking faggot.” “I hate you.” “Stay out of my life.” “Get away. You are ruining everything.” I didn’t respond at first, finding her literally psychotic and unprecedented text messages, well, crazy and unprecedented.

She kept sending them though, with no provocation on my end. After the eighteenth text message buzz, I grabbed my phone and stormed outside. I called her with full intentions of letting that bitch know if she kept contacting me I would call the police. Naturally, the pussy didn’t answer her phone and so I left a scathing (i.e. quiet, calm, even-voiced — that’s how I act when irate) voice message. Instead of calling me back, she seized this opportunity to take my voicemail and transcribe it onto her insignificant blog, suggesting a call to arms of her readers: I was the crazy ex who left her a threatening voicemail out of the blue.

I don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is.

I met her most recent ex-girlfriend at a party a few months ago, while they were still together. The girlfriend said she was thinking of breaking up with the bitch (who we call FUPA (Fat Upper Pussy Area)) and I nodded in extreme agreeance. We shared horror stories about FUPA: her alcoholism and the terrifying consequences thereof, her pathological lying, her dependent personality, her deflection of blame, etc.

My friend and FUPA broke up and now FUPA is harassing her. She has no idea that her exes are friends, much less that we bonded over her FUPA. Next weekend we are planning to attend Choice Cunts, a lezbo party that FUPA is slated to attend, and I am going to finally execute the projectile vomit I’ve been working on since she and I broke up. If I can projectile vomit on that fat bitch’s face, it’ll be an improvement for one, and for two it will be the greatest accomplishment of my young life. I SHIT YOU NOT.

Rough estimate of her FUPA's magnitude

&&

I also learned that my ex-boyfriend (our history is basically here), TWO YEARS after we have broken up and ONE YEAR since we’ve had any communication whatsoever (his last words to be me being: “stay the fuck away from me you stupid fucking bitch!”) DROPPED A CLASS because we have it together. That. Pussy. Ass. Mother. Fucker. He’s apparently been fucking a roster of fat easy chicks post-me, which is weird but to be expected in my genderless life. But dropping a class because my presence so disgusts him? A lecture class, at that? Wow. And I need to get over it? It’s called ignoring, and you know, accepting your anger, and then, you know, GETTING THE FUCK OVER IT.

Have fun schlepping your shit-full self betwixt your rich-ass trust-fund apartment and your poorly-paying job which you only have to supplement your “writing” which, let’s face it, isn’t gonna get you anywhere except maybe the front page of a lit magazine edited by a bitch with daddy issues who falls for your charming, intellectual act. To him I just have to say: grow a pair of balls you pathetic wannabe “hedonist” with more issues than the cutters you fuck, and the audacity to deny anything suggesting as such. I’m not the evil slut you bastard, you’re the one with problems and, instead of groaning every time my name is mentioned, why don’t you go get some therapy yourself and try to figure out what the fuck went wrong with you to make you so utterly vapid and egocentric. Suck my ass, you fuck.

Wow, ex-boyfriend. You've really stepped up your game.

Jesus Christ. Do I know how to pick ‘em or what?

Someone please prove to me I’m not the only one with pathetic taste in men/women. What’s your worst ex experience? If more than five people comment, the person with the worst experience wins a SIGNED Alex Stevens poster. (signed by Alex Stevens, of course). And a mix CD from me.

*This whole writing-out-your-disgust thing actually helps. I no longer feel the urge to drown my sorrows in a night of Jameson tears–I mean shots.

Johny's asshole.

Oh, hi. It’s just me…Brian. Today’s entry may have a melancholy feel about it because I am in a melancholy mood. I found out today that I didn’t get accepted into the fiction workshop I wanted, again. And the ex-boyfriend DID (get accepted), again. I’m taking the GRE tomorrow and am also freaking out about that…I can feel the ulcers gnawing at my gut. This new defeat has made me rather, hm, pessimistic toward the future. MFA programs accept roughly 1.9% of their applicants. Will stupid ass ex-boyfriend get into Iowa while I continue to fill my lungs with weird NY air? Probably, unless I stop fucking around and actually WORK. I’m deleting my Facebook until mid-January (when applications are due) and until then I’m going to write for at least three hours a day (this blog not included).

Alex

I was talking to my roommate last night about my desire to grow my hair past my shoulders. I told her how I can never get it there because I always get all manic about something and then decide to chop it off. My thoughts are something to the effect of: *slashes hair* “This is for all my sins!” *slashes hair again* “Take that, cruel world!”

Sadly I am hardly kidding.

Giordanno

I’ve made it pretty far this time around, my hair’s currently about an inch above shoulder-length and my beard is coming in nicely. But I know from personal experience and from the experiences related to me by others–hair-cutting is often used as a tool for renewal and revitalization. Which makes me wonder…what about the hairy guys? Not just the sprig-of-chest-hair guys, but the BEARS? The hairy motherfuckers, if you will. What kind of balls do they have that they don’t have to immediately rush to the clippers every time a mini-crisis occurs? It’s an act of cleansing and purification…or maybe I’m just not happy with myself yet.

Anthony...he's straight.

Which would mean, by some permutation of the transitive property…the hairy motherfuckers are confident as hell? Hm. Or they’re just lazy. Either way, they’re the kind of man who can’t be bothered to trim here and there and spend three hours each morning meticulously applying product. He’s got more important things to do. Like chop down trees, grill cheeseburgers, practice auto-fellatio…Maybe that’s why hairy guys are so hot. They’ve got the stamina to let ‘er grow, they love who they are so much they can’t bear to shave (ha, get it, BEAR)…

Or they probably just don’t give a fuck what they look like. Or are scared of razors. Hm.

Anthony's Ass...sounds like Sophie's Choice

Therefore. In honor of people unlike me who would probably just go get drunk tonight and not freak out about some stupid standardized test, I present to you: the men who aren’t pansies. The hairy studs.