Celebutard Sex Videos
Tuesday, January 9th, 2007
This week’s question:
From Rummy to Regan, the times are a-changin’. Work, love, or life –Tell us about a time you knew you it was over…
Next week’s question:
With this week’s controversial cell-phone footage, YouTube officially offers everything from birth to death. What three minutes of your life would you like to upload and watch again and again?
Your answer goes here (in 100 words or less, please). We’ll post our favorites on the front page of SMITH.
You might think my knew-we-were-over moment took place when he told me he was skipping my birthday party to go out drinking in New Jersey. Somehow I held out hope that he liked me but didn’t want to spend the day with my nerdy and mostly female friends. When I checked my voicemail that night, it was definitely over. What did he say to me? Nothing. But he did accidentally allow my voicemail to record him telling another chick that he’d been seeing this girl but blew off her party because she was mentally unbalanced. So I killed him.
My old girlfriend believed life was a romantic comedy; just when I thought things were good in the relationship, she’d pull away because we hadn’t met on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower or something. After a year, I got pretty good at ending such spells — ask what’s wrong, then suffer repeated pouty declarations of “nothing” until we got to the crying, the bullshit “you don’t love me like Richard Gere loved Julia Roberts” and the makeup sex. But after a year of this, I was done. When she came over to break up with me, and to collect the vibrator I bought her, I kept reading the alt-weekly article my friend had written.
I’d been miserable at my job for a long time—taken advantage of by my boss, outcasted by the cliquey office bitches, and weary of the diva bullshit our clients were permitted to get away with. Somehow quitting hadn’t occurred to me; I’m revoltingly responsible and not immensely financially solvent. One particularly abusive Friday, a cute boy bought me a drink at a dive bar and asked me what I did for a living. I told him, then added “but I’m giving notice on Monday.” I hadn’t known it until it crossed my lips, but it was true.
When I was eleven I begged for swimming lessons. They were hard to come by in the city, but I was captivated by the idea of slipping through the chlorinated blue like a red-headed dolphin. Mom suggested soccer, gymnastics, t-ball, ballet, but I was fixated. Finally she agreed, supplying a YMCA, a navy speedo, and a particularly unpleasant rubber swim cap. I did okay the first few weeks, but one day I was feeling either ill or obstinate and I wouldn’t get in the water. Instead of arguing, placating, or pleading, the pimplefaced instructor lifted me off the ground and tossed me in the deep end. I never returned.
I don’t need a hundred words. Just a sentence of good, common sense advice. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT download celebutard sex videos at work. Neither IT nor HR will think it’s funny.