I’m a Jinius

I was out with my guy friends last night and collected some hilarious booty stories. And like a good investigative journalist I shall protect the identities of my sources. ( I should really write for the New York Times. I think they would be quite impressed with my story on being dickmatized.)

So after last night’s discussion, I learned that the average New York male in his thirties has slept between 60-100 people.

Okay, I don’t even KNOW sixty people let alone have the time to be sleeping with them. Where are you guys meeting these people? Bars? Really??? You need to lock your dicks in cages!

And then they told me that this guy I dated also slept with probably that amount of women, if not more. That was just lovely to hear.

My guy friend was talking about how he met a girl at a bar and then went home with her within four hours. FOUR HOURS. “She was really drunk”. his friend said. “Yeah, but she wasn’t drunk in the morning.” he said.

On a side note, did you know that you can clone your dick? True story. You can buy a kit that resembles a middle school chemistry set and mix all the powders together and then place the mixture on your mate’s harry potter and then wait a few moments and voila! You have a dick clone that can be used for your pleasure when your mate is not there. I think that would be the ultimate compliment for a guy. Don’t you? And since it’s the holiday season this would make a lovely gift for the both of you. I mean, this would make the ultimate stocking stuffer. Literally.

I think I’m going to send a few emails today and see how guys react.

Hey, haven’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to see how you are doing. By the way, do you think I can clone your cock?

Then we got to talking about booty calls. My other guy friend is very happy with his booty call. “Do you like her?” I asked. He looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. “She’s a booty call.” he said. “Yeah, but do you want her to be your girlfriend?” Again, he shot me a look that said you are a fucking idiot.

I can’t remember the last time I had a bootycall. Actually I can but I try not to think about that dark period in my life known as my “early to mid twenties”. But if I were to engage in a booty call arrangement now I think that I would actually be physically incapable of fulfilling my part of the deal. I mean, the booty call contract strictly entails that you call your partner after a night of drinking with your real friends. This is probably around 3 A.M. You never call before 3 A.M. That would mean you are actually friends and hanging out. And you can’t call after 3 because you have to ensure that your partner is still semi awake and sober enough to hook up with. So 3 A.M. is the general booty call hour. And I pass out by midnight. See? I would make the worst booty call partner. Don’t call me!

I was going to write more stories but I am tired and hungover and writing about dick clones was too intellectually taxing. More later!

2007 was a great year. Lets take a trip down memory lane and look at the events that have inspired and molded the Jinius blog. Because here at the Jinius blog, I remind you of the stupid shit we did over the past year so you don’t have to.

Lets see…we kicked 2007 off with a bang. (more…)

There’s so much serious stuff going on in the world today.

Bombings in Algiers.
Hotels in Rwanda.
Human rights violations in China.

But I know you people only read this blog while procrastinating at work. So I’ll refrain from the serious talk. Instead, lets talk about another grave issue that is happening to women today. A serious epidemic that must be curtailed!

I’m talking about being dickmatized. (more…)

Do you guys hear that sound?

Come closer.

A little closer…

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK WHAT YOU HEAR IS MY BIOLOGICAL CLOCK!!!!!!!

That other sound you hear is the pounding of my head.

I went balls to the wall last night. My friends Elissa, Chris,and Niki threw a swanky holiday party. I’m talking an array of meat, cheese, and even home made crab dip– which I didn’t try but could smell it on everyone else. There was some serious stank breath going on last night.

The highlight of the evening was Lisa’s baby. His name is Nico and he is so cute I wanted to eat him. I don’t understand how parents stop themselves from eating their children. I think Lisa was trying to hide her baby from me for fear that I was going to eat him. If I had kids I would just stare at their cuteness all day until they pooped. Then I would hand them over to my husband or Caribbean nanny.

This is Lisa and her baby Nico. I’m going to eat him!

But last night’s party definitely reinforced the fact that while I am coveting children I am not ready to look after them because I don’t even have the wherewithal to change out of my clothes at the end of the night. Yeah, I woke up this morning in my cocktail dress and tights. I hope that my future husband will be more judicious and also have the decency to change my clothes for me.

I can just imagine the conversation:

“Honey, you should probably change into pajamas.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re going to ruin a really nice dress.”
“You’re a gurly man.”
“Can you please stop saying that in front of the children?”
“You ruined my life.”

When I wasn’t drinking or gawking at babies, I was making love to meat on a stick–that’s not a euphemism!–and catching up with friends. I saw my friend Kenny and his girlfriend Karen. They are both very smart, very good looking, and very nice. Obviously I hate them.

I also ran into Craig Baldo who is a very funny comedian and a nice guy. I think. I always run into him at the point in the evening when I start seeing everything in threes. He could be a serial killer for all I know. Come to think of it… he does kinda kinda look like a serial killer. Anyway, Craig was giving me good advice about writing and comedy but I think he was just being nice so he could kill me later.

This is Craig. He is about to murder someone.

Now lets take a look at the rest of the pics, shall we? Note how the photos get shoddier as the evening progresses.

Hello, fabulous!

What the fuck am I aiming at?

These guys look like they are having a serious conversation. Obviously I hate them.

Seriously, someone give me a glass of water.

I need new friends.

Time to go home!

So this Thanksgiving I went to my friend B’s place. I went to his place last year for Thanksgiving and he always has the most amazing food. Like home made chest nut icecream or moon shine.

This year there were about seven of us who gathered at B’s place. I wasn’t very good friends with any of them. I had met them a few times before. Right before dinner we had to tell everyone what we were grateful for. I was the first person to go so I said:

“I’m grateful that I don’t have herpes.”

Silence.

The people at the table don’t even look at me. There is probably more eye contact at a Planned Parenthood.
One of the guys at the table says, “What did you just say?”
“I’m glad I don’t have herpes? I mean, I’m glad I don’t have a cold sore…”

The guy leaves the table and goes into another room to smoke a cigarrette.

I look to my friend. What the hell did I say that could have offended him?
So my friend says:
“He had a bad bout with herpes and he’s a little sensitive about it.”

I nearly die. I mean, I’m ready to just cry right there. I never felt so bad in my life. I thought herpes was the one safe terrain in comedy where everyone could laugh but apparently it is not anymore.

So for the rest of the dinner I am known as the girl that brought up herpes at Thanksgiving dinner.

(I wrote this while drunk last night. Maybe I am a genius…)

I think I still have shoulder chlamydia so I’m trying not to type so much. Instead of emailing and texting I just call people or avoid them. But today I will attempt to type because I already ate my lunch and have nothing else to do.

So I reconnected with this guy via Facebook the other day. He messages me and says, “We should go out for some scandalous drinks soon, like that time we first met.”

This email confirmed two of my biggest fears:

1. That people actually remember the stupid shit you do when you are drunk
2. That people remember the stupid shit you do and want you to re-enact them

A few years ago, my friends threw an Anti-Valentines Party where a bunch of single people got together and drank their sorrows away. This is not unlike any other holiday in New York. Like Christmas.

So I go to the party and there is a group of French guys. As some of you may know I used to pounce on Frenchmen like a Kodiak bear on a salmon. And after a couple of drinks I started flirting with one Frenchie and before you know it we were having smoochies in the bathroom.

Oh, but I forgot to mention that I was sorta seeing this guy at the time and he eventually came to the party. And I would sneak off to the bathroom to make out with the frenchie while my date was in the other room chatting with my friends.

The worst part is that I got really sick that night and my date drove me home (he had a car) and on the way to my apartment he stopped at a bodega and picked up some medicine for me and he gave me this cup of water. And this is how I respond:

“Ick! Eww! What the hell is this?”
“It’s Alka seltzer.”
“Gross!”

Then he actually had to escort me to my apartment because I couldn’t walk up three flights on my own. He tucked me into bed and then left. And he even called me the next day to see how I was doing and asked me out again.

See, this is why I have bad dating karma. But I don’t feel so bad. I’ll explain later in a future post. I already have a title: my love is like a red,red sore.

These are pics from my roomie’s bday soiree at the Thompson Hotel.

It was such a fun evening despite the fact that everyone who works at The Thompson Hotel (except for the bouncers) are so stank. Our waitress was stank and the DJ was stank because he yelled at someone for requesting Britney Spears’ Gimme More. I’m not telling you who that someone was but I will say her name rhymes with Schmajinius.

I’ve lived in New York for about ten years and have been to Chinatown three or four times. It’s not that I have anything against ethnic enclaves (only the ones with “little” or “town” in the name) but I try to avoid densely populated areas as much as possible (large groups of minorities smell funny).*

So when tourists ask me how to get to Chinatown, I usually just point south and say, “Er…that way.”

My directions did not fly with these two tourist chicks yesterday. Annoying tourist number one kept asking, “Well, isn’t there a bus, cab, or subway to take to Chinatown?” I wanted to annoy her as much as possible so I said, “I’m not sure.”

These girls were about to strangle me with their fleece jackets. So after I explained to them that I had no idea how to get to Chinatown, annoying tourist number one goes, “How about we walk to where you told us to go and then ask someone else for directions when we get there?” And then she shoots me a fake smile that says, “Thanks for nothing. What kind of Asian doesn’t know how to get to Chinatown?” Um, hello, the kind of Asian that doesn’t know how to read maps!

I mean, what did they want from me? I get lost trying to find my apartment in the middle of the night (only happened twice).

*Please don’t send the Anti Defamation League of (fill in the blank) to this blog. I have no money.

My guy friends are all about picking up women on the street. Their take on it is, “What’s the difference between meeting a woman on the street and meeting them at a bar?”

Um, a bar has alcohol. A bar is where people congregate and meet other people. A bar is structured and designed for socializing. A bar has alcohol? The streets of Manhattan are an open jungle where you are trying to dodge taxis, bums, and Falun Gong protesters. The streets of Manhattan do not have alcohol. (Unless you are standing in front of an OTB.)

The street is where I like to walk and ponder the important things in life. Like wondering if communism will collapse or persist when Castro dies. Or wondering if I remembered to shower that day. Why do I have to be subjected to an unctuous pick up line when I’m trying to walk and think at the same time?

There should be an area in New York City that is impervious to corny pick up lines. A dating DMZ if you will. I think this restriction should be strictly enforced in pedestrian heavy areas. It is hard to walk away from a man when there is a wall of people charging at you.

One time I was walking in Chelsea (which is sort of a dmz for straight women) and this guy just sidled next to me out of nowhere and asked me out. I lied and said I had a boyfriend. Then I put my ipod headphones on. This is the universal sign of politely telling someone “Leave me the eff alone.” But the guy doesn’t leave. Not only does he not leave but he’s still talking to me!  And the worst part was standing on the street corner and waiting for the light to change. All I kept thinking was: Please turn green. Please turn green.

But women will occasionally make an exception for street pick-up lines. Especially if the exception is cute, well-dressed and has a full set of teeth. What, did you think I was going to give you some glorious insight on picking up women? Do I look like Neil Strauss to you? Just be nice and normal and not homeless and you should be fine.

For example, yesterday was the first time that I gave my number to a guy I met on the street. I was even feeling like crap that day and in a horrible mood. The kind of mood when I’m only pacified by a voluptuous bowl of pasta and five hours of tv.

I was feeling under the weather so I threw on the only clean clothes I had and my new ankle boots. I didn’t feel like washing my hair so I threw on a beret.

After work I’m walking down second avenue to my bus stop and I notice this guy walking in my direction. I think “Oh, he’s cute” and right when I’m about to cross the street he comes up to me.

Boy: I like your boots. Where’d you get them.
Me: Coach. (Please don’t tell me you’re gay.)
Boy: Are you Chinese?
Me: No, Korean.
Boy: Yepuda.
Me: Haha. (This guy is telling me I’m pretty in Korean. Normally I would puke in my mouth a little but he’s kinda cute.)
Boy: Do you wanna go to this reception with me tonight? It’s for carbon.
Me: Carbon? Like the element? (Why can’t I think of better lines?!)
Boy: Yeah, we’re trying to find sources for alternative energy. There’s a reception at the Javits Center.
Me: Sorry, I have a writing class on Monday nights. Well, I gotta catch my bus. (Why am I  walking away? He’s cute! It’s too late now. He’s walking away. I should have showered!)

So I cross the street and I notice that the guy has crossed the street and is now walking towards me.

Boy: Hey, what’s the rush? Do you live with your mom or something?
Me: Do I look like the kind of girl that lives with her mom? (Please don’t answer that.)
Boy: Is it okay if I get your number? We should go out for drinks some time.
Me: Um…okay. (Of course!)

And then I give him my number.

He could be the Ted Bundy of energy markets for all I know.  But at least he was my age and had all his hair. I guess I should change the name of this blog to Szechuan and the City.* If only it weren’t for that being Korean thing…not that anyone would know the difference.

*Title courtesy of Billy.