Old Yeller

I have a question for the cosmos...what the fuck has happened to my life? Someone should seriously take me out back and shoot me. I am basically nothing short of the human equivalent of Old Yeller. How did I go from having so much promise (if you can consider being divorced with 2 kids as having promise) to foaming at the mouth wearing fat pants?  (the fat pants will be explained below) This is not good. Not good at all. I would love to blame my lack of blogging on writer's block...but in all honesty I can only blame it on my pathetic existence. Let me elaborate.

Halloween was a bust. It was a fun night out and I enjoyed myself...but I seriously saw no one I would have been willing to make lip on lip contact with (besides a guy that my friend has slept with who was all sorts of adorable--but apparently has a miniature manhood that requires a search and rescue team to locate...which is a God awful shame given his level of cuteness). So anyway, I was hit on by a greasy older dude who's wife recently drank herself to death (after his opening line of "Are you from Tennessee?......because you're the only ten I see"--I really did not have high hopes for him anyway) and a couple barely legal Marines. The night ended with me hiding in the bathroom. Enough said.

Since Halloween didn't do quite enough to damage my self-worth I decided to go out and buy fat pants just to make my "loser" status official. And by "fat pants" I mean pants with an elastic waistband. Also commonly known as sweat pants--which I believe were invented to hide unsightly fat under multiple yards of fabric thus allowing oneself to get fatter and fatter without realizing it. I have never before owned a pair of fat pants. I have pj bottoms and workout pants...but the fat pants I bought are neither for sleeping nor working out--so by having no actual intended use they are, without a doubt, my fat pants. Putting on my fat pants is basically like being awarded the gold star of a shitty social life...the blue ribbon of dating failure. They are a constant reminder that I have no plans to leave the house and I have no expected company coming over for whom I would want to look presentable for. I am a mere single step away from becoming a creepy cat lady.

Can you see why I have not blogged in 10 days? Do I really want to broadcast the fact that even when I am dressed up all dead sexy like (and by dead sexy I mean scantily clad and showing as much cleavage as humanly possible) I can't get a decent guy to hit on me? But fear not loyal blog readers and random strangers...craigslist is my ace in the hole (and by ace in the hole I mean my last possible act of desperation to find a man) and I am pulling out all the stops baby! So sit tight...because Old Yeller aint getting put down just yet!