This past weekend I went to New Albany, Indiana. It is an extremely small town on the other side of the Ohio River from Louisville. I’m not sure that it has much charm, but it does have an enormous amount of Rally’s which is a burger joint that should be closed down in every location. In some sense it’s like every other fast food burger place, but it’s definitely the Totino’s Pizza of them all. I didn’t see a single one of their buildings that looked like it had running water inside. That’s the kind of town New Albany is.


Doesn’t it look like they might serve gas?

I went to this small town because my boyfriend was taking part in a Superman themed wedding. I think some of you read that and it sounded cool in your mind, but we were quite certain we’d be witnessing a massacre. The couples engagement photos had the bride leaning over the groom, opening his buttoned up shirt to reveal his Superman shirt underneath. I think the part that bothered me the most was that instead of a white shirt, it was purple and blue stripes. Luckily for the groom and his obsession with Superman, his last name is Smith. Therefore all the invitations had ‘THE SMITHS’ with Superman logos imbedded.

Truthfully I wasn’t originally invited. I have never been formally invited to a single wedding for what I believe to be good reason most of the time. My boyfriend was asked to be a groomsman despite the fact that he wouldn’t have even invited the groom to his own wedding, they sent him an invitation reserving one seat. One. We had to personally ask if I could attend and on the rehearsal dinner invitation, they neatly wrote in my name next to his. After I saw the engagement photos, I thought I couldn’t miss out on this opportunity for anything. If there was an event I was destined to arrive at and live-tweet, this was going to be it.

At the rehearsal dinner, I was introduced to roughly 100 new people and was fortunate enough to end up at the table with the bride and groom. I learned that she wanted a brightly colored wedding and suggested the Superman theme. He reportedly gave her three chances to say no and then proposed. I see what she did there. They were proud to be the first ever couple to have an all DC Comics themed wedding because all the others mixed DC and Marvel and apparently you can’t do that. I was told if I wanted to have some real fun, I could ask the groom if Batman was a real superhero or not. This was serious.

When I dropped my boyfriend off to take the photos for the wedding, I considered staying to watch them all unbutton their shirts to reveal their superhero identities, but decided I preferred to pre-game the wedding. After hearing about the promises of copious amounts of alcohol before the ceremony, I thought I would have to show up drunk to be even with my boyfriend when we finally got to be together again.

I regretfully chose to not drink before the wedding when I recalled that I had brought ankle-snapping high heels. I had seen enough episodes of ‘Four Weddings’ on TLC though to know that the cocktail hour after the ceremony would provide me with free booze and I thought I would catch up then.


Ignore my hideous smile here and admire my shoes.

The ceremony was about to begin and luckily I had grabbed a seat in a back corner in the back row. Since I had never attended a wedding, I didn’t know really what to expect and because I half expected her to come out in a Superman cape, I wanted to be able to hide my laughter. The music selection was quite beautiful and her dress was stunning. The groom was in red, the bridal party in blue, and she had a red ribbon up her corset in the back. The theme was toned down to the potential of mistaking it as a primary colors themed wedding and it was visually appealing. The groom waited until the bride walked down the aisle to lay eyes on her for the first time and his tears brought out tears in most of the crowd.

It was all quite pleasant except for when the bride agreed to be a servant to her groom under the name of god and then the minister referred to the groom as ‘you people’ and I lost control of my laughter because the groom happens to be black. I was seated next to an older gentlemen and had to pretend I was sneezing multiple times. The wedded couple jumped the broom for the African tradition and then they played ‘Forever’ by Chris Brown on their way out of the ceremony. I think that was my favorite part mostly because it reminded me of Jim and Pam’s wedding from ‘The Office’.

pan and jim

If you didn’t cry during this you’re not human. 

During cocktail hour I grabbed wine and started taking bets for how many glasses I could drink before I fell down in my heels. I assume that is one of the reasons I do not get invited to weddings. I began live tweeting about the placement of bets and the bacon wrapped sausages at the cocktail hour and then was misfortunate enough to meet the ‘girls who wear pink to weddings’ group.

When we returned upstairs I refused to sit at my correct table because it was with the bridal party who was absent and so I followed my only friends upstairs. I got the table to start playing ‘Four Weddings’ and there was much debate over whether the crayons and connect-the-dots coloring sheet added or subtracted from the category of ‘overall experience’. I obnoxiously was the only person standing when they announced the bridal party because I had yet to move to my actual seat. With each couple they played theme music specific to the superhero and mid-walk each ripped open their shirt to reveal their secret identities. A guest claimed they kept the Justice League theme classy, but I couldn’t get over the cheesy factor.

Over the course of the reception I live-tweeted my wine glass count, booty danced alongside the groom, chugged a beer with some old folks, asked the wedding photographer to take my photo, and accidentally drank all my wine and had to do the toasts following each speech empty handed. Everything felt like such a production. The bride had two maid-of-honors who both gave boring toasts and the best man’s was equally as disappointing.

 photo 1photo 2

I had always thought I would never want to get married, but that I wanted to have a wedding, but I started to change my mind. The bride and groom consistently looked happy and enthusiastic, but as I watched them I didn’t see how they had a moment to breathe and take it all in. They were either thanking the guests, cutting the cake, listening to speeches, participating in specific dances, throwing the bouquet, talking about logistics of the after party, or the hotel, or the gifts, it was non-stop-madness. I don’t think I could do it.



See they look really happy.

I lasted in my heels the entire time without a single fall. I even managed to get through all the hops of the ‘four hops this time’ without the slightest spill. I tweeted about this and then we headed to the after party where I somehow managed to freely partake in every shot with the bridal party and convinced the band to give me the microphone to sing ‘Billionaire’ by Travey McCoy.

I expected the wedding to be a disaster. I thought it would look hideous, I thought it wouldn’t feel genuine, I thought it would be a cheese-fest, but it wasn’t. Overall it was quite lovely and most importantly they looked happy and I realized that maybe that was all the mattered. Those of us getting blacked out drunk including the groom eventually are what changed the ‘classiness’ of the wedding, for better or for worse, I honestly can’t say.



A Three-Dick-Foursome

I might be hanging out in the minority when I say that a three-dick-foursome is probably the least logistical kind of foursome. Unless of course the men are bi-sexual, then it seems things would be less demanding for my vagina, but alas that is never the case.

I’ll never forget that fateful night from what began as casual sex between two friends turned into a foursome I knew I wasn’t drunk enough to ever use my inebriation as an excuse. Of course, I didn’t think I’d need an excuse other than, ‘I do what I want!’ but it turns out that the expression on people’s faces when they hear the story suggests I need a better one.

Now I’ve seen plenty of porn, I get how this is supposed to go. It’s basically a gang bang. Speaking of gang bangs, did you know, 9 out of every 10 people enjoy a gang bang?



Or in this case, three out of every four cats. 

I have never experience double penetration, probably because I’ve never met two men who wanted to fuck me so badly they’d let their dicks rub one another. Sure, they’ve all stood naked around each other fondling their dicks, but I think the rubbing requires something special. If you’re not willing to get all three holes stuffed at once, then what you end up with during a three-dick-foursome, is an extra dick. I guess technically at once I had a dick in each hand and the other guy was eating me out, but his dick was still lonely.

lonely dick

If only men could do this too.

During my experience everyone took rotations being the odd man out, which I thought was sweet of them. At one point I was being fucked from behind while giving head and the third person was just standing on the edge of the bed going, ‘Hey isn’t that like the best head ever?’ only to get the response of ‘Yeah, I could probably fucking enjoy it if you weren’t talking to me’. Yeah, it was uncomfortable to say the least.

I’m not sure what it is about me that makes men want to dump their semen inside me immediately after someone else just did, but I think that’s a compliment.


I recently was discussing the logistics of a three-dick-foursome at Red Robin while getting hammered at noon and the family next to us asked to move tables. That’s power. I also was repeating that story to my tattoo artist when an 80-year-old man came over and told me he’d also like to hear how the logistics work. It’s a fascinating topic so I’m not really sure why the family moved seats in the first place. It’s Red Fucking Robin, if you’re not going to there to get drunk at noon, what are you doing with your life?

Now, while that foursome has given way to many wonderful conversations with individuals who probably will never look at me the same, I don’t know if I’ll ever have another. I’m actually writing to inform all of you about the changes taking place in my life, and ask for your opinions on the future of our friendship. (Friendship? I thought the Shit Show hated everyone. Yes, kind of, but I still love you all deeply and sexually).

I will soon be teaching middle schoolers full-time. In about two weeks I’ll start working nearly 50 hours a week in a corporate-ish environment and while I will love it, it will also make me want to rip my eyes out and go to bed at 7pm on occasion. I also will actually be celebrating a year with my boyfran next month and that’s never happened. It shouldn’t come as a giant shock that I’ve never really maintained my relationships. I’m usually much more interested in blowing drugs during foursomes in Vegas than cuddling up with someone to a Netflix series.

Therefore here’s the deal: The Shit Show That Is My Life might be turning into a Was. Now don’t panic. I still do crazy ridiculous things, and will always try to get drunk at Red Robin at noon when I can. In the last year despite being committed I’ve still managed to sell pictures of my feet for money and imitate the life of a homeless person. The Ke$ha in me will never go away. If you follow me on twitter you’ll know I started taking bets at a wedding on Saturday to see how many glasses of wine I could drink before I fell over in my heels.

drunk in heels


That Shit Show will never stop.

As far as I can tell though, I might never again do cocaine with a D-list celebrity, or have sex with strangers in parking lots or outside of movie theaters. None of this will happen mostly because I stupidly fell in love, but also because I’ll only have the weekends to get involved in trips to the worst strip club in America (which is really close to me and I’m going, because I hear half of them are amputees or pregnant).

We are at a crossroads my sexual friends, I can either continue to write, and promise to never write about my boring relationship or adorable cat, or stupid ass students unless one like pulls a knife on me. Or, I can stop this blog as you see it being the end of an era, and maybe start another? Or maybe hand you my book so that you can treasure me in paperback form for life. Just kidding, you’ll definitely all get a copy of the book because it comes with genital love pats remember?

Also, Red Robin has not responded to my requests to host a book tour. I might just travel to them anyways and invite people because yes. You can search your nearest location here.

red robin

Red Robin: Where the Classy folk drink. 


P.S. For those of you interested in my life and writing, I’ve been given an  account which is in Beta right now and mostly for artists and I’ll be writing there indefinitely.


Bacon Cheese Pizza

Today my Ma told me that two girls took their friend into the woods and on the count of three stabbed her to death. My response? Why did they count to three?

Things have been a bit all over the fucking place lately and I have some stories to tell, but every time I sit down and write here I realize I could be finishing my book WHICH IS RATHER CLOSE (okay that’s a bit of a lie, but the first draft is nearly finished). Although maybe I should be getting drunk instead of writing a book as I hear from a friend it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.

Anyways, as I’ve been lurking in the shadows of your blogs as you know, today I saw this quiz that’s modeled after the Cosmopolitan quiz. I have to admit that I do get that magazine every month because on Christmas I bought myself a year subscription for $5 and I think it’s the worst magazine on the planet. I don’t think a single one of them has ever touched a penis and they manage to re-word the same 50 sex tips every month to make them seem different. That impresses me. I know you miss me, and I miss you too, so here’s this really stupid quiz so that we can all become close again.

Love to all your vaginas and dicks alike. xx

The Blogmopolitan Quiz 2.jpg


I’m Here To Sell You Sex

Guess who’s back? Back again? Shady’s back, tell a friend. Guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back…

When I was seven years old I used to walk around, saggin’ my sweat pants, carrying my walkman, with my headphones blarin’, and my tweety-bird cap backwards listening to Eminem on repeat. I think that says something about the larger social structure of my life.



Basically me from birth, except female, and I had a mullet. Seriously.

My parents took away my CD after I yelled out ‘SHIT!’ when I rewinded my backstreet boys tape too far. Then I cried until I found it a month or so later hidden in their closet. Stupid bitches. It was probably one of the first instances I remember thinking my parents were exponentially dumber than I was.

If you’re reading this you’re probably thinking 1. Yes, the ShitShow is back and then 2. Does that mean the book is done? or you’re thinking none of these and are still picturing me as a seven year old. I had swagg.

Incase you were asking those questions let me help you out 1. No. 2. No. Disappointment in life is hard.

lebron sad


Not as hard as Lebron’s dick after a win though.

Alright so maybe you’d like to know why I’m here writing if I have no book to show you and if I’m leaving again directly after this post. Well that reason is ten-fold, or probably more like two, but let’s exaggerate.

1. I’m here to sell you a book

2. I’m here to sell some sex.

3. I’m here to tell you I will make you ShitShow swag if you so desire to have some.

Let’s see if we can go in order and make this a smooth ride for everyone involved shall we?

I’m going to sell you a book, and most likely if you haven’t bought it you’re going to. Mostly because it’s fucking hilarious and full of some real douchey tales that make me quite proud. You’re also going to buy it because it’s cheap, a quick-ridiculously fun read, and because well frankly, this dude can write.

Sean Smithson over at The Office Inbetweener wrote How To Lose A Girl In 10 Ways and while it says so in the title, I still really wanted him to end up with the girl at end of each story. While he may be known to drop thousands at a strip club, steal money from women, and shit his pants, I still consider sleeping with him a viable option. Now you have to go buy it, right? Available in both ebook and print. I got the paperback and you can see my excitement when it arrived.

how to lose a girl

If you’re in the UK buy it here

If you’re outside the UK buy it here for a paperback with free worldwide delivery. Or here for an ebook copy (or paperback too).

Seriously it’s fucking awesome and I owe a lot of thanks to Sean himself since he led me to so many of your awesome blogs (and a lot of shitty ones that fucker). I’m sure if we ever live in the same city, we’ll be dropping thousands on strippers together.

Speaking of strippers, I once learned how to change a tire with a bald stripper, and a police officer, while wasted on our way to the strip club to work. It was quite wonderful.

While I have been working on the book, I’ve been able to dig far back into my memory and have unlocked quite a few stories I had forgotten all about. It turns out that I’ve drank copious amounts nearly one too many times and my memories are only being triggered by location. Yesterday I drove past the apartment I once met a guy off Craigslist at just to see if people online would really try to murder me once alone. He didn’t try to murder me, but when I left he cornered me and aggressively suggested I didn’t leave and then I ran away. Success? Eh, I lived.

Now speaking of bad decisions, remember that pregnant Kate Hudson I sat next to on my flight back from New York? The one who puked on herself in this story? Well I never got her name which was a shame because Mother’s Day came around only a few weeks later and I wanted to Facebook stalk her and wish her one.  It was therefore one of the saddest Mother’s Days I’ve ever had.

While sitting on a plane flying to Cedar Point for my birthday (oh yeah, you all missed my birthday, fuckers) I suddenly remembered a moment that was so vague and blurry that I starred into space intently confused on whether I had dreamt my dream come true or it actually happened. Well ladies and gentlemen, it actually happened.

The week after Mother’s Day Ky and I went to a Rockies game and got belligerently drunk leading us to the house of some guy she was fucking and her and I nearly naked on top of one another. She left bite marks that broke my skin in places I would have preferred didn’t occur. Her guy friend was quite disappointed that we wouldn’t let him join, and yet he didn’t have a strong desire to lay on the hardwood floor and try to work his way in. I see a lack in ambition that I appreciate for my relationship’s sake generally disapprove of.

In the morning they fucked in the shower and when he finished she straight up told him she missed another guy who she called her boyfriend. Only Ky. Okay but back to the most important part of this story. After the game we went to a few bars and Ky ran into a friend of hers. We were hanging out around them on a patio when some other girls walked up and made introductions. One claimed to already have met me that night and I told her she was mistaken. She swore she knew me and then we both starred intently until screams erupted. Yeah, it was the pregnant bitch from the plane, out at a bar, doing what she does best. What a Happy Mother’s Day after all.


Babies are the worst. 

AND FINALLY. I said I’d make you swag right? Well that’s true. Here’s how it works. I can make you a t-shirt, mug, pillow, hat, sweatshirt, basically whatever the fuck you want and it can say any quote you want, or simply my website. What will it cost you? Exactly what it costs me. Email me if you’re interested

                              as approachableblackout sex made me famous

This Is Me Winning

Most of you know I’m an arrogant fuck wad who isn’t exactly the nicest, but I’m as approachable as a fucking puppy. I’m always getting asked for directions, stopped to take photos of elderly couples, asked for a tampon in the bathroom, and get people to tell me their secrets without asking. My face is apparently charming as fuck.

st bernard


I was going to put a selfie here, but puppies always win. 

I give off the kind of vibe to homeless people that suggests I’m going to chat with them about their life problems, the kind of vibe that says even the lamest guy at the bar shouldn’t be afraid to come up and dance next to me, the kind of vibe that suggests I’ll order a pregnant woman a drink if she asks me too. It’s both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Actually it’s neither, but that’s irrelevant.

The truth is, I’m pretty likable. I mean, even when I’m being a giant dick people either appreciate how funny and rawly honest it is, or they are too stupid to realize I’m being serious with my insults and also think it’s funny. But before I open my mouth even, I’d say I get a 97% approval rate. Women make up lies to tell themselves about why guys don’t approach them at bars such as ‘they’re too intimidating’ (read: permanent bitch face), or ‘they’re out of their league’ (read: even if true, you also look like a stuck up cunt), and last but not least, ‘they don’t like their hair/makeup/outfit/friends’ (read: they’re not attractive enough).

Now I’m not sitting here trying to claim I’m a 10 because that’s stupid and even I know my boyfriend only thinks I’m perfect because of how often I put his dick in my mouth. What I am saying however, is that last night after waiting in a tedious mass line for a chance to get to the bar, a spot opened up and I offered to let the guy next to me take it. After all, it was ladies night (free drinks) and I also know the bartenders so I was in no rush. However, despite it being twice as difficult to make your way through the crowd as a guy, he let me have the spot anyways.

big deal

I’m just fucking with you. I’m a HUGE deal. 

No but okay, so what does all this appeal get me in life? Well lot’s of things, because the pretty girl discount comes in hand everyday, but I’d like to focus on a specific aspect of what my charming face, and overall like-ability does for me:

It makes me the first phone call a man makes 1. When drunk and 2. after he breaks up with his girlfriend.

I love the good ol’ drunk calls and texts. On the occasion that I am still awake, I try to entertain them. Yet, even when I was single, I’d rarely go meet them. If you’re going to meet a drunk guy late at night, it’s likely he’ll pass the fuck out before you get there and you’ll have to sit in your car listening to his voicemail in your underwear regretting the fact you didn’t put pants on. Not worth it.

drunk texts

When I wake up in the morning though and see anything remotely like this? I’m in love. You may think it’s stupid to be flattered by drunk texts, but it’s comforting to know there’s drunk men wandering all over the nation thinking about me and specifically having sex with me. How is that not flattering?

The real honor however, comes from the ‘Guess who is single?’ phone calls. I’ve gotten quite a few of these this year and they never stop astounding me. Now, let me explain first that these phone calls only come from people I once slept with. It’s never the ex-boyfriend who calls when his new girlfriend cheats on him and steals his laptop though. My ex-boyfriends know for certain there’s no way I would ever fuck them again. But my one-night-standers? I’ll keep most of them under the ‘friends’ tab for life.

When I was in New York an old friend of mine from high school sent me a casual text, ‘Hey [real name] how’s it going?’. Well, it was going just fine, in fact it was going quite well, but considering we really hadn’t spoken since we fucked at a Christmas party a few years back, I knew he didn’t just want to know how it was going.

He said we should catch up, get a drink sometime. I told him sure and when we hung out he bought my beers, and thanked me for coming out. What did I say, I’m such a big deal people are thanking me for sharing my presence with them. I suppose it’s not my fault he didn’t know I was taken before he bought my beers, but he didn’t ask until after. He works at a restaurant though that happens to be the same name as my boyfriend’s and I made him give me a shirt.


Then over the weekend another friend texted me late at night asking if I wanted to go out. Considering I hadn’t fucked him since the summer after high school on his garage floor and it’s been five years, I figured he wanted something as well. I asked him how drunk he was and he said he hadn’t even begun drinking. We actually hadn’t spoken in five years either, but it was apparent he was just as fucking stupid. I told him I was sick and he said we should get lunch sometime. I said yes, but I doubt I’ll get lunch. He’s fat and doesn’t seem like he’d buy my beers.

And of course there was my favorite, the guy who slept with my trans friend, but snapped me to tell me he was single only after I once drunkenly snapped him asking if I could stick my thumb up his ass as a joke. You can read about that here though.

**Oh uh, PS. I’m going to try to take a break from blogging to write this book. I’ll be around though if you need my love.

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner

I actually wanted to title this post ‘YOU CAN’T BE ON TINDER IF YOU’RE NOT SINGLE BUT I DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER’ but I realized that had gotten out of hand before it even started. So I toned it down.

I got sick somehow over this past week and now am spending Memorial Day Weekend in bed. Can’t you mourn our lost soldiers in bed Shitshow? Yes, but can I be at the Indianapolis 500 eating a hot dog drinking cheap beer until I black out in bed? No. We don’t need to discuss which is more important. I think it’s obvious.

indy 500

So while everyone is out having fun and living the American Dream without me as I try to fight of the Black Plague and every other day tornados coming through Denver, I decided I’d get on Tinder.

Grindr worked out perfectly for the gay male community. Gay men aren’t interested in playing the long game, that’s why whoever was ‘near’ and ‘willing’  made that app successful and that’s how Tinder was adopted. It was supposed to be same idea, but for heterosexuals. While I think it must be working some of the time, Tinder has turned into an app for the most part where men still have to play the long game.

Now I could sleep with someone off Tinder in the next 30 minutes if I wanted to. The odds of me being able to make that happen are higher than the odds of me buying Starbucks at least once a week (100%). Most females probably have extremely high odds of being able to nail someone off Tinder, it’s not rocket science. Just like at a bar, if a women puts up her hand and asks who wants to fuck her, the peni come flocking. Tinder works the same way, oh wait, except women are pretentious bitches.

And that folks, is how Tinder turned into a dating app and started ruining lives.


The first time I got on Tinder was right when it was created and I was single. I swiped yes for every fuckable dude and every message was something like ‘hey, what are you doing tonight?’. Straight to the point, and their eagerness to reach my beaver was loud and clear.

But it’s not like that anymore. Everything is ruined.

Last night I got on and I only swiped right (or yes) for every 100 lefts (fuck no). I have the right to be picky mostly because I have no interest in fucking these dudes anyway. I know, I’m an asshole, but if you are just coming to that realization then I need you to hurry the fuck up and get with the program.

Ultimately, I swiped ‘right’ for a few reasons:

1. Professional photos in their reel. Major props if they were using High School Senior photos.

senior photo

2. Anyone who had ridiculously questionable photos. C’mon crawling in a suit? Yes.


3. They had photos with famous people. Especially D-listers

famous person

This may or may not come as a surprise to you, but I’ve never swiped ‘right’ to anyone who hasn’t already swiped to the right for me. Therefore anytime I swipe right I get ‘A Match!’ or, the go-ahead to send them messages about what the fuck they were thinking and entice them to tell me puns while I’m sick, or ask to fuck me. What? I’m trying to make Tinder what it was meant to be.

Well people weren’t exactly aiming for the long game, but I did have some men in hopes of seeing me last evening. When I replied that I was sick in bed I got some major hostility such as, ‘what the fuck are you doing on Tinder if you’re sick?’

hold da fuck up

I mean, I said I had a cold bro, not offering up HIV, calm down.

I realized an hour in that none of these dudes were going to settle for friendship which was a total bummer because I really wanted to be friends with the guy crawling in the suit. But the rule of Tinder is: If your end game isn’t dick in your vagina, it doesn’t matter how short or long it is, your game is over before it starts.

So then I switched over to a new game called ‘Find Your Friends’. Another nice feature about Tinder is that everyone is on there. After a while I had come across my old roommates ex boyfriend, my boyfriends co-workers, my best friends brother; I meant it when I said everyone. The trick is to swipe right for all of them, because then when they swipe right for you it can be a laughable tale. Well on at least one end.

I swiped right for my old roommates ex boyfriend, Weird Walking Kid, as we call him. Him and I once made out when I was blackout at a bar before they got together. His profile said something about, ‘I like to snowboard and shit’ and I made about 10 different jokes of ‘I say I love you when you dump me’, or ‘I make out with your good friend and then ask you to get serious’ and I laughed endlessly.

He had swiped for me already so I messaged him making jokes and we caught up a bit. He then offered to take me out for a drink and I said, ‘well I’ll be, you taking me out?’ and then declined. I mean with a nickname like Weird Walking Kid I don’t need to explain right?

When that got boring I switched over to only females because my boyfriend is the best. Or if you’re a hardcore feminist, the worst because he doesn’t consider me putting my mouth on another vagina cheating. I support this.

lesbiansAnd this.

Therefore I swiped right for a lot of sexy women, even ones who were 18 which I found questionable on my behalf, but then I remembered that nobody puts baby in a corner.

Blackout Sex Made Me Famous

I’ll always be Ke$ha.

You can wipe off all my makeup, take off my nose ring, cover up all the tattoos, and put my wine in it’s proper glass, but I’ll always be Ke$ha.


Last year was the best worst year of my life, equatable to the movie ‘Spring Breakers’. Something you can’t look away from, but constantly wish it would end already.


You need to see this movie immediately. Vanessa Hudgens looks fat in it.

I miss those days.

I’ll admit that I don’t mind that my biggest fear in life is no longer that I’m going to die in a ditch somewhere choking on my own throw up. It has moved to number two. This year has been a lot safer as well. There’s been no drunk driving accidents, no STD worries due to drunken sex with a foreigner on vacation, no potential drug overdoses, and no trips to the hospital (and we’ll just count the jaw breaking on New Years Ever as last year). But you know what that sounds like to me? Utterly boring. 

The highlight of my week this week was getting drunk at Red Robin at noon on a Friday. The family seated next to me asked to move tables I’m assuming because I was loudly talking about the logistics of my foursome and they were not impressed. I felt quite accomplished.

red robin

White suburbia is extremely prude. 

Like I said, you can give me a collared shirt and a teaching job, but I’m still going to talk about cum swallowing in a family restaurant. At noon. With beer.

Day drinking. I don’t know about any of you, but I’m considering it the only reason to consider having a belief in God. I mean, enjoying bottomless mimosas on a Sunday is sheer proof of an almighty being, Miley Cyrus. I’m a big fan of pre-gamming the pre-game. If you show up drunk to a party where all you’re supposed to do is get drunk well you can come fashionable late and miss nothing.

This is my favorite day drinking story, and it also luckily is about blackout sex. Which I’m not sure if I mentioned or not, but I recently won google.

blackout sex

Yup. That’s Victory. Also please ignore the serious webpage below mine. 

I am number one on google. NUMBER FUCKING ONE. Most people can’t even get to number one if you type in their own name. Shit, even my own name doesn’t place me at number one. Sure if you type in, I come up first on google, but a phase like ‘blackout sex’? Fucking Epic. 

Therefore, I hope this story helps solidify that place because it’s probably definitely the accomplishment I’m most proud of.

One day a classmate of mine and I decided to skip class and get beers. We really fucking hated our cunt of a teacher and beer is always better when you’re skipping class. Upon arrival to this beer establishment on campus, I ran into my friend, The Asian. You know her, she’s fucking trouble, and I love her for that. (She was also who I was drinking with at Red Robin, go figure).

It takes zero seconds of convincing before I chug my beer and order myself a pitcher of long island ice tea.

half fast

Actual pitcher (lolz on that pun) on patio of Half Fast Subs

Yeah, a pitcher. They have a pitcher per person limit here, but not if you know the guys. Luckily the Asian was about to start dating one of them and somewhere before the bottom of the second pitcher, and before the clock struck 4pm. I was done for. Destination: blackout city.

8:00pm. I black in. Where am I? you ask. I’m in an auditorium with the guy I skipped class with and I’m pretty certain we’re at what seems to be a cult meeting. There’s this guy on stage getting people to salute him and I end up choking on water and spitting it all over the people in front of me. Ke$ha.

Well I finally realize we’re at a Richard Dawkins talk, and I love anything that hates on religion so I just laughed hysterically in an otherwise serious event and gave no fucks. Ke$ha.

I text The Asian asking her what the fuck happened and when we split. No response. This is good. The talk finally ends and the guy I’m with apparently drove us to the talk on his moped. I know how to pick um ay?


Hahaha. Awe. 

So for some reason (probably because unbenounced to me I had put his dick in my mouth) he let me drive his moped around campus. It was definitely illegal on multiple levels and I had never driven one. I loved it.

We went back to his place, where I had left all my stuff and I started having some memories of being in his apartment. Or at least I was trying to come up with memories of being in his apartment. In fairness I had a hunch he liked me so it was my semester goal to prove that to myself by fucking him so I wanted the memories. I needed them.

It wasn’t until I started (apparently) repeating things that he realized I had no recollection of being in his apartment earlier. It’s good to know blackout me also accused him of having a pretentious book collection.

So we fucked again, and honestly, I have little memories of that now as well. Turns out what I wanted to remember wasn’t even remotely memorable. He later asked me on a ‘date’ to watch the political debate at his house. Being me Ke$ha, I turned it into a drinking party and then instead of fucking me he just jacked off near my vagina while I laid there naked and then he came on me. I stopped seeing him after that.

I mean, even Ke$ha has standards.

Make Someone Your Kanye Today

I hate everyone. Including myself.

I think that actually might have been someone’s book title, but because I’m too lazy and could care less if I’m stealing it, let’s just pretend it’s not.

I of course hate myself less than the rest of you, but at least there’s hate being thrown out in all directions. Unlike the majority, I find hating people to be extremely easy and enjoyable. That’s why I search for the worst in everyone. Er that’s not really true either, because in actuality, I find your worst to be jumping out and screaming in my face at all times.


If you’re reading this and you know me from personal life or you’re a blogging friend  (it’s the only place I still have friends really) you’re thinking ‘haha suckers, Shitshow hates you cause you fucking suck.’ and you’re right. But I also hate you too.

computer nerd


Self Portrait of Me and All My Friends

If you’re easily offended and you still want to like me as a person, writer, or hilarious friend, then you should either stop reading, or continue on hoping to come out of this thinking ‘at least she doesn’t hate me as much as that guy’. Unless you’re that guy.

Let’s take a quick glance at some celebrities. I find that most often, people agree it’s easy to hate these scum bags we don’t know, like Kanye West or Justin Beiber.

 jesus kanye

Honestly, I’m just going to admit that we’re all lucky I even finished this post because if you troll Kanye West photos looking for the douchiest ones, well, there’s a lifetime supply. But look at him. He’s so easy to hate. Everything about him just really makes you want to punch him in the face and you don’t even know him, but it feels wonderful. Why do we hate celebrities we don’t know? because it feels good. (In fairness my only friend who met Kanye said he was really nice, but that isn’t important).

Kanye is an easy target to point at and say, ‘Ay, fuck you, you’re a douchebag piece of trash and I hate you’. We do this towards lots of celebrities. The gas station clerk asked me who was on my phone background and it’s obviously Our Lord, Miley Cyrus (and the other one is Charlie Sheen) and he just hung his head low and started shaking it. Disappointed in me are ya? Gas Station Clerk. Ain’t no shame in my Miley lovin’ game so you hate on her and I all day baby, because that’s really all you have. After all, you’re a gas station clerk, and that would make me hate everyone too.

We can hate on celebrities all day, or strangers whose phone backgrounds we don’t like, but I’m suggesting you do this towards everyone. Especially your friends, cause fuck those haters.


These are your friends.

I know what you’re thinking, 1. Shitshow, friends aren’t haters, because if they were then they wouldn’t be considered a friend. and 2. My friends aren’t like those dumb mean bitches in Mean Girls. Well you’re wrong. Both times.

It’s not like my friends have been mean, or backstabbed me. Sure, in high school there were a couple boyfriend stealers, car key-ers, and wannabe-ers who started my hate for everyone around me, but the hatred of everyone came slowly and steadily throughout my life.

Our friendships blind us from the negative characteristics. Your friends are holding you back, bringing you down, and keeping you from being yourself. Durden never understands if I’m talking about my friends or worst enemies because I equally discuss their attributes and flaws (okay, I concentrate on their flaws). Meanwhile, you’re over there pretending your friends are all around awesome because your clouded judgement makes you believe the majority of the time, they’re a good friend and you like them. Mistake.

Here are the things I hate most about my friends combined into one beautiful list. I hate:

When they try to act 10 years older than their age and rush marriage at 22.

When they act 10 years younger by being passive aggressive teens.

When they cry and expect you to listen when they get drunk.


That they’re always beaming with optimism because it’s exhausting and they’re in denial.

That they care too much (or care at all) about what other people think.

That they complain they have no food money after spending $300 on BCBG clothing.

That they are always trying to be someone for someone or something.


That they’re a people pleaser because appeasing everyone is defeatist.

That they’re selfish and refuse to appease anyone.

That they won’t voice opinions they have or worse, they literally lack opinions.

That they’re stupid.

That they’re rich and entitled and snobby.

paris hilton

(insert any celebrity or trust fund babies/ Californians)

That they’re overcome with white people problems.

That they complain and refuse to find solutions to their problems. Or worse, avoid actual available solutions to them.

They think they’re good at something when they’re not.

They try to be the ‘best’ at everything. Stop. You can’t.

That they consider themselves ‘inspiring’.

They consider their waitress job temporary, until they ‘make it big’. (Everyone in LA).

That they’re bad liars. Don’t lie if you can’t lie.

That they’re judgmental about things that make them racist, prejudice, sexist, or assholes.


Donald Sterling’s are the worst.

That they’re willfully ignorant about the world.

That they think their boring lives are fascinating.

Now you may have read that list and thought to yourself, ‘YES! I hate all those people too, and I am not the worst‘, but surprise! I hate people who read that list and think they’re not on it too!

Dear bloggers, although some of you have seen naked photos of me and that makes me feel like we’re close, I hate you too. I think some of your writing is dull or lacks content worth reading. You also feel this way about a lot of people you follow, you just won’t admit it. For the record, if I ever compare you to Harsh Reality in my head you’re automatically on my ‘Do Not Read’ list because well, I kind of hope he dies.

He once did a post on ‘Coke or Pepsi?.’ You know how many people flocked over to share their completely worthless opinion on the matter? Too fucking many. I hate them all.  I can’t imagine the OM himself is going to have a book worth reading, unless of course you’re into pondering your opinions on soft drinks.

Hate is good. It’s healthy. It probably keeps me from gunning down people who tailgate me in traffic. Find the flaws in your friends because it’s eye-opening and freeing. I once spent a year trying to pinpoint what I hated most about a friend. After I figured it out, I could actually enjoy their company because I didn’t spend every minute over-analyzing their every move to discover why I despised them. I can nearly guarantee that all of you have at least one friend you actually hate. So make them your Kanye, because it feels so good.

Feet Money

When I told everyone about my book in New York they’d say, ‘So, you’re writing an autobiography?’ and I’d reply with, ‘Well, kinda, except one where I make out with a terrorist.’.

New York was amazing as it wrote some of my book for me. I also had some amazing experiences in which were boring for all of you to read about because it didn’t involve sex, blacking out, or me being a giant douche, but I still enjoyed them. Luckily for you guys, I also got stories you’ll eat up like candy.


sexy feet

On Saturday evening, I got really fucking drunk on wine before leaving my house to meet my best friend in New York who I was staying with. He was at some bar on the lower-east side called Dream Baby and it was kind of exactly what you’d expect. There were too many men wearing polo’s and it was overcrowded with penis. One man was sitting in a booth holding his tiny dog. I can’t really begin to explain what I think about little dogs right now, because well, I can’t. Apparently my friend went over to ask the dog’s name and this man with blonde silky long locks replied, ‘It’s fuck OFF’. Clever. Ever so clever. He reminded me of that guy in White Chicks who gets left with the little dog and starts making out with it.

man with doggie


After a drink at the bar and approaching 2 am, they decided to head home and I was going to Chelsea to see my boyfriend’s best friend play a gig. I got into the station and had about 10 or so minutes to wait for the train so I sat down.

I sat down next to Edward Sanchez. (Is that a famous person? Should we know who she is talking about?) No. I don’t really know who he is either, but I woke up with his name written in pen on my hand. Edward had to be in his late 70’s. He kindly said Hello as we were sitting next to each other on wooden benches. He told me I was ‘too pretty’, which sounds like a compliment, but really it’s an insult. He rambled about his ex-wife and how pretty I was an then wanted to give me a business card. It was only then I noticed his fly was undone and he didn’t have any business cards. I offered to write down his name in my phone and he handed me a pen. Confused, I wrote it on my hand.

Edward didn’t get on the train when it came and the L is the only train at that stop. I bet he’s still there.

On the subway I was standing next to two guys. One was trying to force the other to take a 5-hour energy and on the third attempt I chimed in ‘I’ll take it!’. Mostly shocked he handed it over. They were having a bachelor party and I told the bachelor, ‘Congrats! er, that blows, whatever…’ — I’m not very good at that stuff.  I ended up telling them I was a writer and gave them the name of this blog and left the train.


He looked like a mix of Zach and Ed. It’s never Bradley.

After running home from the bar at 4am while yelling to strangers I was working on my marathon training (in a leather jacket and boots) I slept until I had to get up at 7:30. I rolled over and checked my email.

Subject: 5 hour energy guy

Intrigued I opened it. The man wanted to know desperately if I remembered him. I replied, said I did, and that the drink didn’t work and I crashed soon after. He apologized and wrote me a long message saying this blog was amazing and that he remembered my ‘ruby red lips and perfect black nail polish’ and how he thought that was funny. (So he doesn’t understand funny I presume). I was unimpressed and didn’t respond. Then, the second email came.

Subject: Bachelor party guy.

I was most annoyed because then the first line said, ‘Hey this is the guy who gave you the five hour energy last night‘. Like what? I know. It’s 2014, my inbox groups your emails together. Did you have to change the subject? Why change the subject if you’re going to re-iterate the other topic in the first line? Someone needs to work on his emailing skills.

He then said based on my blog, he thought I’d be ‘up for anything’ and he had a question. Okay. You’ve got my attention Bachelor party, 5-hour energy guy. And you guessed it, he wanted to know if I’d send him pictures of my feet in exchange for money.

After acceptance of the fact that this is how my life constantly pans out, I finally replied asking for details on the type of photos and the pay rate, you know, important business details before complying. He sent back some email with details and questions like if I had a Skype and what color nail polish I was wearing on my toes.

I fucking hate feet. 


The whole idea made my skin crawl, but you can’t write a book if you don’t allow your skin to crawl. I didn’t respond for a while and then it happened, another email.

Subject: Feet Money

And this is how I’ll refer to him forever. As annoyed as I was about another subject change, it was the best subject title I’ve ever received. Ever. It was him asking more questions and getting excited about the whole thing. He still couldn’t even believe he was talking to ‘the cute girl from the train’ and he also couldn’t believe he ‘had the courage to ask me but he just couldn’t wait!!!’.

He asked for pictures of the soles of my feet, my feet covered in lotion, and if I wanted more money, I could kiss them. Everyone told me I had to. There was no choice in the matter, I had to send this guy photos of my feet and they were right. As much as I was grossed out about it, there was money to be made and experiences to be had.

I googled ‘foot porn’ for inspiration.

foot woman

I found this gem amongst feet on dicks

I didn’t have a dick to throw into my photos so I got creative. I would post pictures of my own feet, but that’s going to cost you. How much you ask? A little over $3 a photo. At least that’s the going rate.

Throwing Up On Planes

On my 21st birthday, I knew I was going to puke even before the flight took off. The stewardess asked me immediately if I needed anything and she forced me to have ginger-ale and gave me a trash bag. I threw up the entire 30 minute descent. I could feel how warm it was on my legs through the bag and I vomited nearly half a gallon of liquid. Like a good kickball size of water/ginger-ale. It was a long day.

I arrived an accidental three hours early for my flight home from New York. I like to show up with just enough time to board so this was an out-right outrage on my part when I realized my flight didn’t depart until 5:40 and not 5pm. Then my flight was delayed an hour because of mechanical issues and the stupid runway at LaGuardia.

When they told us they had to call a mechanic there was this over-weight, middle-aged black woman panicking.

“Ohhh lord, I ain’t tryna hear dat shit. Dat the kinda shit make me not wanna get on dis plane”. I was waiting for her to say “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”, but life isn’t all you expect it to be.

I have a middle seat because Jesus likes to punish me in these ways and when the woman who had the window seat sat down she said, “that’s a good book!”. I have Catcher in the Rye with me. I’m re-reading it to see if I want to kill Ringo Star more than usual because you know, the guy who killed John Lennon said his defense was this book. I might have missed something in it.

I laughed and that was that. She was blonde, short-ish hair and young looking. Like Kate Hudson in How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days.

I fell asleep somewhere early on in the flight and when I awoke I was in a daze and had the worst dry throat and no liquid. Kate Hudson was drinking her second Vodka Cranberry. I started thinking about that drink and how it reminded me of my life before I found Gin. What a classic white-girl drink and I was judging her when she said, ‘vodka cranberry?’

SS: ‘actually thanks!’ And I took a sip not worrying about mono or Hep C. I don’t even know if you can get Hep C from a drink really.

K: ‘You look like you could use a drink.’

SS: ‘thanks, I’m exhausted.’

K: ‘Did you have fun in New York?’

SS: ‘Yeah! What about you? Are you from Denver?’

K: ‘I went to school in NY but I’m originally from Denver.’

SS: ‘Me too! Where did you go?’

K: ‘The New School, you? Where are you from in Denver?’

SS: ‘ I went to NYU and I’m from Lakewood, you?’

K: ‘ah Cherry Creek’. These are really close to one another, maybe 10 or so minutes away. We then small talked for a minute about our degrees and jobs and shit that’s not really important to this story.

SS: ‘Oh cool. Did you have fun in New York?’ I shouldn’t have asked and I knew I shouldn’t have. She just asked me in a way that made me know she didn’t have any fun, but I had to know. I had to.

K: ‘No. I flew in yesterday to see my boyfriend and now I’m going home. My boyfriend and I started dating four months ago, and two months ago we found out I was pregnant. We bought a house together and he said he doesn’t want to do it anymore. So I’m going home to live with my parents.’

SS: ‘Wow, I’m really fucking sorry’. It was all I could think to say.

K: ‘it’s alright.’ And then a tear dropped from her eye. ‘He has a four year old son with his ex wife, and she’s a real fucking bitch.’

SS: ‘I’m sure she is. All ex-wives are bitches.’

K: ‘So I’m moving home I guess cause he doesn’t want to live with me. Where do you live?’

SS: ‘I live at home too. In Lakewood’ She reached over and grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

K: ‘How old are you?’

SS: ‘I’ll be 23 next month.”

K: ‘I Just turned 33 on Friday. (She doesn’t look a day past 27) My boyfriend forgot my birthday.’

SS: ‘I’m sorry. What a douchebag. If it helps my Dad always forgets my birthday and wishes me a happy one a month early. Sometimes I don’t even correct him.’ This made her laugh.

K: ‘Cheers!’ She handed me her drink again. ‘What’s your name?’ And I told her my name and she told me hers and then she looked at me dead on and said ‘[my real name], I’m scared’.

I’d never felt so awful in my fucking life. Seriously. Never in my whole life.

SS: ‘I know, but it’s going to be okay. I knew a bunch a fucks who got knocked up in high school and they turned out to be good mothers so you can do it! It’s really going to be okay.’

K: ‘ I know I shouldn’t be drinking but whatever. I don’t care. I know people who do Heroin and shit so I just want two vodkas.’

SS: ‘I think you’ll be fine. My ma smoked cigarettes the whole time and I’m awesome.’ She laughed again. ‘Did you have any idea he was going to say this?’

K: ‘No. He was really excited. I think he still loves his ex and she’s such a cunt. She called me a whore and all this shit and she doesn’t even know me. I’ve only slept with four people my whole life!’

SS: ‘Well she sounds like a cunt and I’ve slept with 62.’

She held my hand again and asked if I’d order us some drinks. She really wanted to share one and how the fuck do you not? I know pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink, but I’d be on my 10th whiskey if I was her so I agreed. We had to order beer though because they were out of vodka and the stewardesses were real fucks. I don’t know if they were just being the norm of bitchy or I felt extra sensitive with their attitude towards my new best friend.

Kate went to go pee and we finally got our beers. In the next few minutes she told me about how she’s been engaged two times; the first man was gay and the second, a pot head. I told her I was proposed to on the big screen at a Rockies game when I was 17 and how I had to say yes and then retract it. ‘That ended well’, I said, and she laughed.

I had asked if she wanted to have kids and she said last year the doctors said she had a 10% chance of it ever happening and then the second time she slept with her boyfriend, she got pregnant. That’s how it always happens I hear. She told me again she was scared and cried a little. I told her she’d be okay.

She looked around and started to wiggle in her seat and then she burped. Said she was going to get sick and grabbed her beer can and just started puking into it profusely. I had nothing to give her, no bag, no napkins, just watched her puke into the can and then on the seat, and onto her lap. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. She couldn’t have asked for a better seat partner. While everyone else was giving out dirty looks and shooting us shade, I was happy to be the least judgmental person I know.

We finally got her a bag and she poured the throw-up-can in and wiped off her face. I helped her put it all in the bag and got a little vomit residue on my hand and somehow wasn’t phased. I once had to stick my fingers down a friends throat so she’d puke, so this was minor.

She had chunks of pink puke in her hair and on her sweater. I patted her on the back and asked her if she needed anything. She said, ‘No, thanks baby!’ and laughed.

There was a chunk of throw up floating in her cup of beer and I couldn’t help but think of how ridiculous it was that I was pouring my beer into that stupid fucking plastic cup as if drinking out of the can was below me.

She had been in a sorority, shocker. No one I know throws up after two vodkas. Except for this one bitch I hate from my old job.

She took her napkin, dabbed out the throw up from her beer, wiped off her sleeve with her beer napkin and then took a fucking sip.

It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Ever.

She passed the fuck out, only to wake up a bit later and throw up a little more into a napkin.

I almost admire her.
So here’s to you Kate. Cheers.