A Few Answers To Questions You Always Wondered About

July 26, 2017 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Interesting, Answers

What’s it like to date a Gold Digger?

When I was in my 20’s, I had a very, very beautiful woman wind up being the biggest gold-digger I ever went out with. Once I fully realized what was happening, I ended things immediately, drove her back to her car and we never went out again.

So let’s call her… Julie. Julie was a fitness contestant/exotic dancer with a body that stopped traffic. And while she had this super, over-the-top body, she also had over-sized implants that made her look like a real-life Jessica Rabbit, hair and everything. She stopped traffic, and that’s not an expression, cars literally slowed down or stopped to watch her walk down the street. She gave me a picture of her in a bikini. I would show my friends and most of them were in disbelief that I even knew her, let alone was going out with her.

And… how exactly did we meet? At a strip club of course. I was young and more naive than most, but it turned out we had mutual friends in common and we wound up spending a couple of hours together talking. We “seemed” to hit it off and have a lot in common… or so I thought.

At the end of the night, being the naive numb-skull that I was, I thought I actually had a chance with her, I asked her out. To my surprise, holy crap, she said yes— I was on Cloud Nine and couldn’t beliebe my luck. I’m not sure I even slept that night in anticipation of our first date.

However, I soon realized that one we did go out, every date suggestion she made (she always shot down what I wanted to do), was over-the-top. I was OK with that for our first date, and even our second, but soon realized that there was never an offer of a quiet evening at home or having an inexpensive dinner out, etc. Every date or date suggestion she had (and we had three dates) was a extravaganza that cost me well in excess of $500-$700.

Each time, it was the same; at the end of the date, we’d share a quick kiss and she’d find some reason she needed to go home ASAP. I began to sense I was being taken for a ride and decided to stop calling her.

But she wasn’t done with me… yet.

One day, she called and asked me what I was doing and wanted to get together. I was honest and told her she was kind of breaking me. Again, I was in my 20’s at the time, not making a lot of money, and this was killing my bank account.

Then she surprised me by offering me a quiet evening at my house, claiming that she wanted to make medinner. OK, this is better, I thought. And it was better… until about two hours before she was supposed to come over, when she called to inform me that her “Favorite comedian in the wooorrrld” was in town and for only “one more day. Can we PLEEEEEEASE do that instead??” She then threw in multiple references to the wild night at home we’d have later as a result. That was always her way; insinuate that you were going to have the time of your life with her later.

She could teach fisherman how to better bait a hook, she was that good at this.

OK, you probably get where this is going, right? Unfortunately, I didn’t. “Sure!” I said. Sounds great!! What time do you want to meet?” I should have known when she wanted to meet halfway what was coming.

Of course, she tells me that now that we’re doing this instead that we simply must go to her favorite local restaurant now (She “always went there first— it’s a tradition!”), and that came to $200+. Then front row tickets to the show plus drinks, and that came to another $300.

She’s also getting progressively drunk as the night goes on and is now telling me how her dress (a tight-fitting denim number with buttons from top to bottom on the front), “just pops right off… which is going to be really convenient.. tonight. Wink, wink.”

Ironically enough, while I certainly wanted to have sex with her, I also thought I liked her and that this might be a way for us to formalize a relationship. The show ends and we drive back to my house.

We get there, have drinks andtalk for a few minutes about our the night. She seems to be having fun, and then suddenly and out of the blue… she totally clams up… and needs to leave “right away…” yetagainSomething about not being comfortable that her car is parked in a public lot. Ironically, for being so hot, she drove a piece of crap econobox), which keep in mind, she hadn’t been concerned about all evening… that is until it was time for us to be romantic together.

Then it hits me– I’m totally being played by this gold-digger!! %(**@#&!!! And holy crap, she’s managed to do it to me… again!

I tell her she’s damn right she needs to leave right away, and that I will take her back to her car IMMEDIATELY. It was clear to me now… even naive twenty-something me. She was just using me to live the high life, couldn’t care less about me, and then once it was time to demonstrate that she actually liked me in some way, shape or form–and by that I mean even just some kissing and being openly affectionate- ran home.

I heard from other guys later that this was not uncommon for her, but that if that if you had enough money—and I’m talking private jet money—she actually would sleep with you. I also hear that these guys—the one’s who had that kind of money—used her just as much as she was using them, and threw her away when they were done with her.

Karma’s a bitch, right?

We drove back to her car in complete silence. It had been yet another expensive lesson, but this one stuck. I dropped her off without a word in the parking lot, pulled out before I saw her get in her car, and never spoke to her again.

– Errol Greene



What is the allure of Bronyism? (My Little Pony)

I used to be a brony. Honestly, it was a huge turning point in my life.

From mid-elementary school to senior year of high school, I spent practically every free moment of my time online. I was a deeply sensitive kid, which we’re now just starting to realize was probably because of some familial anxiety disorder that hit me harder than everyone else. Any social situation would send panic shooting through me, even if it was little-to-no stakes. I still wanted friends, still wanted everything the other kids had, but it was a lot easier to retreat and feel safer then to engage. Plus, whenever I did try to be social, my anxiety would have me second guessing every single aspect of what was happening. Combine that with a general lack of social skills and penchant for awkward earnestness and I was a god damn disaster.

So for the most part I didn’t try. I’d just go home, get on the computer, hop on the same few select websites and waste 8+ hours. Day after day after day after year after year. I found a few communities, places with other social misfits that I could talk to, but most of those ended up making me feel more isolated than anything. Despite that, I was probably luckier than a lot of the other people who found themselves in that position. My family is fantastic and constantly supportive, and I had a few friends who were willing to do almost all the work in the relationship. But I was still in a really bad place.

So I graduate high school, start going to a commuter college and find this show. It’s a fun show, not bad, pretty enjoyable. So I check out the fans and everybody is just so fuckin’ *nice*. Like, deeply nice, and friendly and welcoming too. It was like having been dehydrated for years so that you get used to it, and then you finally have a sip of water. You remember the thirst, and suddenly it’s all you can focus on. I fell into it pretty hard, spending tons of time talking to people, joking, theorizing, critiquing fan works. I fucking reviewed MLP fanfiction, that’s how deep I was. Over time, my social skills began sharpening and people started frightening me less. Plus I got to be earnest and saccharine and dumb on full display and not be judged or criticized for it. I was embraced, actually. And by getting those feelings out there and communicating them less impeccably then I would’ve liked, I got better and better at judging situations and crafting appropriate responses. Of course that seems simple but a lot of people just don’t have those kinds of skills and never develop them, for whatever reasons.

Now I won’t say that the show ‘saved me’, or even that it was the biggest reason for my social rehabilitation. That honor probably goes to finding stand-up comedy and forcing myself to make friends there. And there are still problems! I still spend an egregious amount of time in front of a computer screen, I still get nervous talking even to longtime friends, I still don’t initiate social interaction, and my go-to answer for most invitations is still “no”.

But I’m in such a better place now. I can talk to random people, to my coworkers, to my roommates. I dress well, keep myself clean and (relatively) well fed. I have a good job, my own car, a nice place to live. Again, this isn’t ‘because’ of MLP or it’s community, but it was a welcoming place that let me find myself with no judgment. It turned my self-imposed isolation around, even showed me that I wasn’t alone in my issues. As my problems have become more and more manageable, my interest in the show and the community have lessened. It started changing, and I started changing, and eventually we just didn’t link up like we used to. But it helped push my life towards a better path. I love my life now, and so I can’t thank it enough.




Why are PT Cruisers the worst car ever?

I deal with one regularly, a dark green second gen/post-facelift. It belongs to a pair of chain-smoking seventy-somethings known as grandparents and is more commonly driven and repaired by every family member except them. The inside is permanently coated in ashes and scraps of paper and the windows have more film on them than a high school photography class. The A/C doesn’t work. The heat sometimes works. They paid *five digits* for this vehicle, *used*, less than a decade ago. They are the target audience. When I get out, I immediately feel the need to shower, burn my clothes, then burn myself, not necessarily in that order.

Do you know how you jump start a PT Cruiser? Chrysler stuck a big metal prong by the hood holder clip thingie (which you will scrape your finger on every time you open the hood, by the way) to attach the negative/ground clip to. Why’d they do that? Because the airbox is directly on top of the battery. Do you want to use both terminals? Take the airbox off. Do you want to do literally anything else in the engine bay? Take the front fascia off including the grille and bumper. Now remove both fenders, making sure you don’t damage the incredibly fragile and ancient wires and clips for the headlights. Now marvel at Chrysler’s ability to make shit difficult even with the *entire front end of the car removed*. Now torch it all and buy something else, for the love of all that is holy.

The seats are uncomfortable and feel more akin to the school chairs I spent the years of my youth seated in, watching the clock, meticulously counting the seconds until the bell rang on my digital Timex Data Link watch, the kind where you held it up to your computer screen and your monitor blinked out the data to it wirelessly- which to my disappointment stopped working once the family computer had its warm CRT replaced with a cold, unfeeling flat-panel display. The school clocks lost one second every day, and I was able to use that to count when the bell would ring to the exact second. In much the same way, I spend every second in a PT Cruiser wondering when the hell I can either stop being in a PT Cruiser or get sideswiped by an SUV and stop wanting to leave the PT Cruiser- or wanting anything- ever again. Also like a school chair, the seats are less than normal sized, possibly less than human sized. I’m relatively sure the back seats are actually out of a Mustang. If the person in the front seat is above about five foot eight, the rear seats are uncomfortable- any taller and they’re actually unsafe and you have to sit cross-legged because there is *literally zero leg room*. Push the front seats up (because for some reason you aren’t just sitting in the front) and there still isn’t enough space to be comfortable and I say that as someone who barely qualifies for ‘adult’ height and sometimes needs to climb shelves at the supermarket to get the laundry detergent on the top level.

The interior is a garbage mix of plastic and depression. Everything squeaks and the only things that don’t squeak are silent because there’s so much nicotine practically dripping from its surfaces. The floor mounted gear selector is some strange cueball shaped monstrosity with a big silver button on top, because ‘retro’ shifters always have a big silver button on top, right? It vaguely resembles a robotic breast, except gynoids (robot girls, for you plebeians) make my dick hard and PT Cruisers make me skip the masturbation and go directly to the self-loathing and depression. People say the interior is parts-binned but the only other Chrysler vehicles I’ve driven have been minivans, which have had reliably comfortable interiors with tall captain’s chairs, loads of overhead space and arm room, and nice column shifters that didn’t look like someone genderbent the ABC Warriors and decided that was how the driver would get out of park. You can fold the back seats down to carry more stuff. As soon as you come to a stop it’ll all fly forward and hopefully decapitate you to end the misery of driving- not that you’ll carry much, because there still isn’t that much space as the hatch closes so close behind the seats there’s absolutely no way a normal trunk wouldn’t carry more.

The steering exists. The engine exists. You put gasoline in and it makes a bunch of noise and doesn’t really go anywhere quickly. It makes a bunch of noise because everything rusts, especially around the doors which were apparently purpose-built to collect water, and it doesn’t go anywhere because it’s crap. Maybe it’s better in the Neon, I dunno. It’s rubbish here. The transmission shifts occasionally, not that it really matters what gear you’re in because the gas mileage is gonna be crap either way. The suspension kind of exists. The front disc brakes’ effectiveness varies depending on weather, time of day, phase of moon and how badly you’re fucked if you don’t stop in time and the rear drums must be big Todd Rundgren fans because they sure as hell don’t work all day. The turning radius is dangerously close to that of my own Marquis, a car which is almost **four feet longer** than a PT Cruiser. Visibility is very, very average, and makes you feel like you’re driving a fishbowl the whole time. Parking it is an exercise in annoyance and trying to avoid being seen by anyone you know, or worse, anyone driving another PT Cruiser looking for a friend in despair.

People like customizing PT Cruisers for some reason. Every time I go out I see one with stupid eyelashes, or Autozone Special tribal decals. There’s more than one with factory woodgrain on the sides. One of them is a convertible and it looks like a picnic basket when the top is down. I want to vomit all over its pristine, flame-decal-seat-covered interior. I don’t know who these people are and I don’t know their life stories but I am judging them *very, very hard*, common courtesy be damned. I don’t like you, Picnic Basket Cruiser owner, and I don’t like your taste in obnoxiously gaudy cars.

This is a car with a stupidly high center of gravity, a failed retraux appearance, and a dashboard that for some reason displays volume on the center console but the radio station on the left side of the gauge cluster. It is not a truck, despite what rubbish Chrysler blathered about to make the EPA look the other way and count it as a truck to raise the abominable average gas mileage of their Xbox-huge truck fleet. It’s a car, a crappy one built off a Neon with a bit of radon for that extra cancerous touch, and while I’m as big of a fan as anyone else of car companies skirting rules and regs for performance reasons, like “police package” big block engines or direct partnerships with aftermarket companies for showroom-floor drag strip dominators, I simply can’t be even moderately okay with a vehicle whose only real reason to exist at all is to allow the streets to be flooded with more three story tall behemoths of chrome, steel and inattentive soccer mom.

– thesmarm




What’s it like to be addicted to Heroin?

It’s like having the worst girlfriend ever, who you are madly in love with but who treats you like shiet, makes you sell your car and house and furniture and even your high school yearbook that your crush from 10th grade signed and told you that you were cute. She’s told you to stop talking to anyone you’ve ever cared about, they don’t want to talk to you while you’re still dating her anyways.

You sell your clothes so she can go out and buy new ones. You eat ramen every meal so she ca eat at the best restaurant in town. In the morning you think about her and in the evening you think about her and when you go to take a crap but you can’t because you’re constipated you’re reminded of her. You wake up and if she’s not in bed with you you get the chills, your eyes water, you have diarrhea, you sneeze, your muscles ache, you have anxiety, you have depression, you don’t want to eat because food isn’t appealing even though your stomach is rumbling, you don’t particularly want to drink but you’re dehydrated so you force yourself to drink some water, and during all this your skin is crawling as if it was dirty covered in goose-bumps from who knows where and you wish you were still asleep so you could at least pretend she was still in the bed with you.

But you’re awake now. So you get out of bed, and you go find her. Maybe today you won’t have to do something that compromises your morals to find out where she’s gone, but really you don’t even care, as long as there is a way. You walk an hour and forty five minutes to get on the bus. You travel for another 45 minutes on public transportation. You get off at the train station in the bad part of town. All the while you have to shiet so bad but you know once you find her that will be solved.

You’re hungry but dont want to eat, once you find her you can eat. You feel dirty and sad and anxious but once you find her she’ll bathe you and make you happy and calm. But right now your walking through the ghetto. You walk another 20 minutes. Maybe it’s cold and raining, if so you are so so so cold. Maybe it’s hotter than hell and that just makes you feel dirtier.

You find a guy that knows where she is. He says he’ll go get her and bring her to you. And the cops pass you as you’re talking to him and they have to know what’s up. What’s someone like you doing in this part of town? So the 10 minute wait for her to come back to you accompanied by the guy who could give two shiets about you as long as you bring him money seems like an eternity. Maybe he’ll run off with her and your money. Maybe she wont be looking so hot today, maybe she won’t be herself. Maybe he’ll come back with a woman you don’t know and don’t want to meet but now your money is gone and you’re broke and sick and a good few hours away before you can get some more money and the world might as well be over in your opinion.

But your girlfriend comes back, he brings her, and she gives you a kiss on the cheek. Then you go home, to your mattress and your overdue rent and the lack of food and the piled up bills and the same clothes you’ve been wearing for three days and your parents that have called but you never answer and your friends that invite you out but you never go, but you’re home and she’s there with you. Eventually you go to bed. But she’s never there the next morning, and you know she won’t be, and you wish someone invented a way to pause time, or go back in time, to that first time you met her, the first couple months when you guys hung out, before she made you sell everything to be with her, but you can’t and you’re fuked. And you know it.


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