Category Archives: Sick Sad World

Get Drunk On A Roof Deck Weather

fedora

It’s that time of year again. You know, that time of year that we get one or two warm days a week so we transform into full blown alcoholics who want to day drink on roof decks, patios, and all other outdoor surfaces. It’s a hard time of year for us full time 9-5 schmucks. All day long we sit here at our jobs, fucking around on the internet pretending we are important while behind our screen shields our Facebooks are up so we can enviously creep on those who work nights and get to enjoy the weather. We vow that we will call out sick the next time weather permits for the Marina, but deep down inside, we know we are pussies who won’t call out sick based on the fear that one of our ass-hat friends will check us in to Port 305 for all of our coworkers to see. So instead we will put up passive aggressive statuses that insinuate that everyone who is basking in the sun is somehow mooching off the government and should focus on getting a job like the rest of us professionals. Then we will go on our lunch breaks and search for maxi dresses online for us to not wear this summer because maxi dresses aren’t appropriate for the office, because we know that’s where will will spend 90% of our Summer, and we don’t have casual Fridays at our office. Maybe we will walk downtown for an hour on lunch, stop in at H&M and purchase a floppy hat or straw fedora to make ourselves feel better. But probably not, because an object sitting on our heads will only serve to remind us that even when we are off on the weekend, it will probably be overcast. That fedora will just sit on the back speaker in our cars, overheating in the sun while we slave away in an air conditioned building, sipping melted iced coffees. Life is hard. My soul hurts.

Woah, that was depressing. Here’s hoping we get some beach weather Saturdays in this year so I never write something so bitter again. Until then, feel free to choke on your week day Bloody Mary. Jerk.

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Your Life Would Make A Shitty Reality Show

I find it kind of smug when ordinary people say that their lives would make a good reality show. It takes a lot to make a reality show good enough to watch, what makes people think that they could be some break out star because something ordinary happens to them? People are all like, “Pretty sure I just got out of getting a ticket because the cop saw my cleavage! I swear I could have my own TV show!” or “Ate a box of Caramel Delights to the dome, couldn’t make this stuff up! Need my own show!” or “The kids are being wild today!!! Three wild and crazy boys under the age of 8 running around with water guns!!!! We could have a show on TLC!!!!”. Um, no. Your life is boring/sounds like hell on earth, and your show would be boring. And if your life isn’t boring, you should at least know that no one gives a shit about your kids. Didn’t you catch that “spontaneous” meatball fight on Southie Rules? Your show would be about as funny as that scene. Besides being wicked at catching tuna, the key ingredient to a solid reality show is the cast’s ability to literally not give one fuck. You need to be willing to be seen as the bad guy. You need to talk about bodily functions in front of a national audience that includes both your grandmothers and not give a fuck. You need to be willing to make yourself into a Heidi Montag-esque creature then disown your mom in front of a country. You need to be willing to act like a total trash bag hick from West Virginia, banging dudes on a friend’s bed in front of an MTV crew and be totally nonchalant about it. And you need an entire group of friends who give even less of a fuck. If you aren’t willing to get arrested, bullied, degraded, f*cked, or at least fake these events to the point that you’re in USWeekly, then your show would suck. Sorry that you got locked out of your apartment like everyone else in the world has done at some point or sorry you peed the bed this weekend and had a friend tape it in an attempt at getting on The Bad Girls Club, but Snookie and JWoww pee inside local establishments behind the bar in front of a camera. You’re not outrageous, you’re just a slob and no one is going to give you a show. I mean, you have the right to know. Carry on.

Love Always,

Simon Cowell

…Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure I said out loud to my friends: “We would have a pretty good reality show, you guys!” over lunch this weekend. There ARE exceptions (Mtv: call me, maybe?).

jwoww

Youtube: Fueling Quincy Girls Stereotypes.

quincy

After watching that Quincy girls fight video that made it to Barstool Sports yesterday, when the vomiting feeling had passed, I started thinking about how lucky I am that this whole Youtube craze wasn’t big when I was in high school. I think it existed, but it wasn’t nearly as big as it is now. Sounds bad that I really don’t know if it existed or not but I could have given a fuck less about social media/the internet when I was out with friends back then. I cringe when I think that there could have been video evidence of me rocking awkward bangs, shelltoes with jeans and dress shirts, 40 ounce in hand because I thought it was gangster (by gangster I mean I quit my job at Stop and Shop and couldn’t afford much else). I cannot imagine what it would be like to have a video of myself up Forbes Hill in a full on brawl with like 10 randoms, Boston accent screaming every obscenity in the book. My graduating class called that “Powderpuff” and we legitimized it with jerseys.

But now, people take videos of EVERYTHING. I’m guilty of it myself, I have 2 Quincy parking lot fight videos on my phone as I type. But would I post them? No. Because when you post it, the trashy comes out in all parties involved a la the comments section of my Facebook page. And once things take a turn for the trashy, I delete delete delete! Which is exactly what happened yesterday when I posted the Quincy girl fight video. The comments section blows up with personal attacks on people who know the girls in the video and people who commented on the video, easily setting things up for a Quincy girls fight part two video. Silly, really.

But like I said, from 2001-2005 no one was posting everything they see to Youtube and the world was a better place. I watched that Lifetime movie (Girl Fight I think it’s called) last Saturday that is based on real life. Corny as shit of course, it’s a Lifetime movie, but it’s about a gang of girls that get pissed at this chick for “talking crap on Facebook”, so they invite her over, beat her til she passes out, and record the entire thing. First off, that’s gross in general. Second off, good idea recording it and incriminating yourselves. See? We really CAN learn something from Lifetime movies and not just laugh at them like I did through the duration of that one when Fred Savage kills DJ Tanner. An instant classic.

But enough tangents! Youtube is obviously here to stay for awhile, so maybe we should enact a Quincy girl ban on it because after yesterday’s fiasco, I’m unsure SOME of us can handle it. OR we could just make those who partake in such behavior vow to stop it. At the very least stop doing it in Wollaston. Take that shit to the Point.

Off The Wagon…

So this happened on the way to work this morning:

redbullGod grant me the serenity to accept that I should only drink a 8 ounce sugar free Red Bull, the courage to only do so 1-3 times a week, and the wisdom to not punch a kitten when I’m withdrawing.

Amen.

 

 

 

The Cluster-F That Is Parade Day

parade

Every year around this time, some of my girlfriends begin gearing up for the Southie St. Patty’s Day parade. And every year, I sit this one out. Other than a party bus that has no restroom, nothing sounds more unappealing to me than the Southie parade on St. Patty’s Day. Nothing. I haven’t stepped foot into South Boston on parade day since 1992, unless I was dropping someone off at the ass crack of dawn. Why? It’s not because I don’t have Irish pride, I do. And it’s not because I don’t like drinking with friends and celebrating my Irish pride. I do that most weekends, so how could I complain?

What bothers me about the St. Patty’s day parade is that it is the biggest cluster fuck of total trashiness I could ever imagine. Crowds that are a mix of families and drunks (nothing more of a buzz-kill than binge drinking around children). People trying way too hard to express their Irish heritage by wearing green shirts they purchased at Old Navy for $5, green beads and douchebag shamrock glasses from Iparty. People who aren’t Irish doing the same thing because it’s another excuse to drink.  A guy friend of mine has called parade day “White Trash Day”, and although  my friends that attend the parade are not white trash, I have to agree that parade day as a whole is white trashy. Aside from the college/yuppy roof-deck slop-fests, there are also T-rats who doze off midway to Broadway station, Big Gulps in tow, rocking shamrock pajamas so they can  pull  down their drawstrings to pee with ease in between buildings as innocent families stand witness, shielding their children’s eyes from the horror. I hope they serve Big Gulps in hell.

Not only is this entire day a cluster F but it is one of those days that has become a “thing”, and I hate “things”. People ask you if you are going to the parade, you say you are not, they look at you in shock as if you are totally devastated not to be in attendance. You know, actually I am 100% fine with not going, thanks for the concern. I’m sorry, I am not in the mood to beg a business owner to let me use their public restroom so I can pee and or puke in a toilet where someone probably peed and or puked 3 minutes before me. I am also not a freshman in college looking for entrance to random parties so I can get blackout status and sleep on a strangers coffee table, waking up in the morning to someone’s grandmother screaming (probably). No judgement if that’s your thing, but I think I prefer my hangovers  served with a side of regret from the comfort of my own coffee table.

This parade has become such a “thing” for people around the Boston area to go to, that I am sure that people from Southie hate us. I mean, how would we like it if people from Southie started turning our hometown celebrations into a full on slop fest? Fuckin’ Southie lifers showing up, drunk since 9am,  funneling Bud Lights through those plastic parade horns they sell during our Flag Day parade. Pissing all over Hough’s Neck in front of children on the 3rd of July in a pair of American flag pajamas. People everywhere, talking all trashy, screaming about someone’s mother during the fireworks…cluster fuck central.
horn

I know what you’re thinking: I am a buzz kill. But no, I love drinking holidays as much as the next pale white ass lush. But when a drinking holiday turns from a hometown good time (such as Thanksgiving Eve), to a cluster fuck of trashy proportions, that’s when I am no longer down. The only thing worse than parade day in Southie are championship parades. For some reason I’ve gone to three of these parades. Boston pride displaying itself by way of surrounding ourselves with a billion people and drinking cheap vodka out of a Poland Springs bottle. But that’s for another blog…

For a good read about parade day from a Southie girl herself, check out Heather Foley’s blog on CaughtInSouthie.com:

How To Be A Lady On St Patrick’s Day

Day 1.

liver

Yesterday on my lunch break I was walking downtown to CVS to purchase some apples and cinnamon oatmeal (the best oatmeal flavor, hands down), when I started experiencing some pretty severe stomach pains. If I had abs, I would describe the pain to be in the upper right ab, just below my ribs. I had to turn back because the pain was so bad. I sat at my desk and crouched down into a sitting fetal position for a few minutes to see if the feeling would pass. It didn’t. I couldn’t eat anything or concentrate, so I decided I needed to leave work and go to my doctor. I go to my doctor’s office and as usual, it was a bullshit and pointless visit. The nurse takes my blood pressure, then tells me the lab is closed. Okay, so this was pretty much a waste of a copay, I think to myself. She brushes it off as an isolated incident, then dismisses me. It takes a lot for me to go to the doctor’s so I was highly annoyed.  I head home, then start doing what all nurses, my sister included, tell me not to do: I Google and WebMD all afternoon, and find myself a diagnosis: my liver is angry at me.

So why do I self diagnose myself with angry livers disease? Well, because I cannot live in denial about how abusive I am to my liver anymore. I mean, we can joke around on social media the morning after a crazy night and say “My liver hates me right now, hehe!”. But the truth is, livers are some shit. Everything has to go through them and get metabolized or whatever the fuck happens (I’m not a doctor). They are overworked. Especially my liver. My body is basically like a sweatshop for my liver.  I like to drink a glass of red wine with dinner. I know, “But a glass of red wine a day is good for your heart!!!!” Well, in America, a glass of wine actually means a chalice of wine, sometimes a bottle if you are dining with a friend. I also drink a 12 ounce sugar free Red Bull when I get to work every morning, as well as an additional 8 ounce sugar free Red Bull when I work 12 hour days three times a week. Usually when I get home and go to bed I am so hopped up on caffeine that I will take a Simply Sleep (basically Tylenol pm without the Tylenol). On weekends,  I go out. You know how that goes when you’re 25 years old. To sum up: I am a caffeine addict who also loves Italian dinner traditions (cue the red wine chalice) and sometimes takes sleepy meds because whoever says Melatonin works is a bullshit liar hippie freak! (if it works, I am jealous of you). So I decided yesterday, as I lay on my couch Googling in fetal position, that whether it was my liver that was causing me pain or not, I would cut the shit. No more caffeine – tea only, no more wine with dinner unless I am at the Olive Garden and need something to help me forget that I am at the Olive Garden, and no more sleepy meds.

liver2

DAY ONE.

As usual, I want to kill myself when my alarm goes off at 6:30am. The first few minutes of being woken up unnaturally makes anyone want to swan dive off the Neponset River Bridge. Nothing new. I doze off standing up in the shower for 10 minutes, then throw my fanciest Quincy girl business casual attire on, and pop some B-12 and vitamin C as I head out the door. Of course the sky is cloudy, like my mind. The drive to work without caffeine can be described best as the feeling of disappointment we all felt during and after Britney’s 2007 VMA performance. I haven’t begun to come out of that “I want to kill myself” phase that usually passes upon rising from my bed. I listen to my favorite radio show. Nothing is funny. I scan the stations hoping to hear Beauty and a Beat, the only Justin Bieber song that gets me going. I can always count on some shitty station playing it during my 30 minute commute. No dice. I drive in silence, like a complete serial killer.

Upon arriving in Chinatown, I opt for the more expensive parking garage because it doesn’t require that I walk outside to get to my building, and I’m feeling sorry for myself. I walk to my desk, head hanging. My coworkers shake their head as I sit down. I look like SHIT. I check my email, and get pissed off when I see how full my inbox is. I also check my voicemail, and get pissed off all over again. Not sure why. I deal with my first real life person of the day. The friendly and pleasant interaction leaves me pissed off. I chug my water, nothing happens inside of my body. No dopamine or serotonin is released. I am pissed off. I am too lethargic to go on a Dunkin Donuts run. I bribe my coworker into going for me. She brings me back some green tea. That doesn’t count, right? Anyways, I chug the green tea.  It does nothing. A dull headache has begun to set in. I hope my liver appreciates all I am doing.

This is bullshit, B-12 is bullshit, green tea is bullshit, every other oatmeal except apple and cinnamon is bullshit, life is bullshit.

Die.

sfree

Have you ever given up caffeine and wanted to punch kittens? Don’t send it to becausemollysaidso.com! Because Molly is too busy withdrawing to care!

Traffic This Morning Can SUCK IT.

storm-RYAN-15

My morning has been the morning from hell, guys. I’m talking first world problems since my alarm went off at 6:30am. I looked out the window and see that it’s snowing, so I take a two second shower, grab a sugar free Red Bull from the fridge  and hit the road. Honestly, the snow wasn’t even that bad at the time that I left the parking lot, but that doesn’t matter. Snow is the cue for people to drive like total dickheads. The first few minutes in the car are stress free, aside from almost stabbing my eyeball out with eye liner (it’s one of those things I will just never learn: do not apply eye makeup while driving). I hit West Squantum Street and immediately start talking to myself about how bad this was going to suck.

Here’s the thing: I am totally understanding of the fact that when there is shitty weather, you have to leave earlier. Some people are assholes and don’t get that, then they give excuses like “Sorry I’m late, traffic was BRUTAL!”. Um, yeah, NO SHIT. It’s rush hour in Boston, what did you think was going to happen?! I left 35 minutes earlier than I usually leave, but this was no ordinary traffic. We are talking about traffic that starts in Quincy, and extends my entire commute. I should have known better at this point to bang a U-turn, suck it up and take elbows from elderly Asian women half my size on the T. But I’m a spoiled princess who is only happy in the morning if I avoid public transportation. Plus I wore Uggs today to keep my feet cozy and this slushy kind of snow goes right through Uggs (forever breaking the laws of business casual dress code). Here’s how I look at it: I don’t smoke butts and I’m not addicted to cocaine so I can spring the extra $25 bucks a week to drive into work. So I do.

Back to my nightmare: It took me a solid hour to get from my apartment near Hospital Hill to the bridge on Granite Avenue. People were getting out of their cars to see what was going on, yelling, beeping. Overall mayhem. At this point I called my boss to say I was 100% going to be late. Fifteen minutes later I was calling to say that not only would I 100% be late, I was going to be at least one hour late. Another half hour goes by and I haven’t even reached the intersection by Adams Village. I haven’t even crossed Gallivan, lights go from green to red about thirteen times before I see a space in between two cars, and turn around back towards Quincy. Smooth sailing. That is, smooth sailing until I reach Squantum Street. I get stuck another 15 minutes and start to feel my eyes watering. Dead seriously, I am that ridiculous. I pick up my phone and do what every Millenial probably does when life gets remotely hard: I call my mom at work. I am sniffling. Legit. I am a 5 year old trapped in a 25 year old’s body. She actually feels bad for me and tells me to call her when I am safely on the T. I love my mama. I see a “Do not enter” street, I pull out of traffic and ignore the sign, taking back roads all the way to Newport. Finally I am back at square one: my parking lot. I pull out my umbrella. It breaks. My Uggs are soaked through by the time I reach the train. I somehow lose grip and drop my sugar free Red Bull. I hear a train coming, I run to the turnstyle. I scan my Charlie Card: invalid. I look to the T worker for help. She tells me to piggy back (not literally) some guy to get through. I do that as the train is pulling away. The guy looks like he wants to punch me in the face as  a single tear runs down my wind burned face. My Uggs squeak as I slowly make my way down the stairs at Quincy Center. The Stephen Hawking voice robot comes over the intercom and announces that the next train to Alewife would arrive in 8 minutes. I sit, defeated.

Once on the train, I look at the time: 9:30am. I was supposed to be at work at 8:30. I complain on my status. Chet (if you’re from Quincy, you know him) comments “Not going anywhere for a while? Grab a Snickers!”. Had he not written that, I would not have laughed, and I would have asked the kind woman next to me to stab me repeatedly with her knitting needle. I arrive at Downtown Crossing at roughly 9:50am. I head towards the Orange Line. Uggs still squeaking, and sometimes squishing from the water inside of them. Once up the stairs and on the Orange Line platform, my mind wanders to suicide again and I think about swan diving onto the third rail as the train approaches. A women plays a soothing song on a harp and I decide I want to live. I give her a dollar, then get on my train.

As I sit at my desk, fucking finally, hearing from coworkers that there was flooding at Morrissey Blvd causing all the traffic,  I start to reflect on the little things in life. It truly is the little things in life that make you want to jump out of a window. And the little things like a woman who looks like she smells at Downtown Crossing playing a harp that make you not jump out a window. Here’s to getting through another day, you guys.

The little thing that made me crack a smile when I first got to work was this: snickers

You Made Me Like This!: Confessions of Ex Girlfriends

So I was thinking of making Fridays more interesting by compiling psycho ex stories. Even though the title is “Confessions of Ex Girlfriends”, guys can feel free to send their psycho ex stories in as well. If you have something you need to get off your chest, feel free to send your story to bcmollysaidso@gmail.com, and don’t worry – 10% anonymous. And we don’t judge you (yes we will).

Here are the *brave women who have decided to share their confessions with you, the internet:

*anonymous

shovel

Busted

Senior year I was dating Guy #1 but was secretly hooking up with/dating Guy #2 who was like 3 year younger, but he was hot and a quarterback…

So I was drinking gin and juice (out of an extra larger McDonald’s cup) at Cavanaugh field (in North Quincy)  and hanging out with Guy#2. I got white girl wasted, legit couldn’t drive my car, etc. So Guy #2 drives my car to my house and to my surprise Guy #1 is there.  I’m shitfaced and cheating so my logical thought was to run into my house and take a shower fully clothed. Little did I know Guy #1 was outside chasing Guy #2 in circles around my car while my little sisters watched from my porch. Oops.

Sign Language, Violence  & All Around Bad Decisions On A Humid Day At The Marina

It was a humid summer day at the Marina. All was fine And dandy as I received numerous free shots at roughly 2pm at Ocean Club. Leaving the company I was with (bad idea) I drove down Harvard street while trying to maneuver my cheesy pop tunes blasting through my iPod. Needless to say I drilled the curb and got a vicious flat tire. Rather then help me out, my man was with another chick at the time. Upon receiving this information my mind began to wander: Revenge? Pain? What type of action should I take to harm this ass wipe? Two friends came to the rescue while a deaf man walking down the street changed my tire. I Googled thank you in sign language for his good deed. First stop – a random shed behind the hotel on Morrissey where I find a shovel. Proceed to Columbia Road where I spotted the shit stained vehicle my man drove. Three whacks with the shovel and the windshield was toast. I huddled next to a parked car and hopped into my getaway car like a straight ninja. The end.

(Note: BecauseMollySaidSo.com does not condone drinking and driving or malicious destruction of property.)

Break & Enter At Your Own Risk

Okay, so broke up with my ex boyfriend of 2 years. We owned a house together, so I moved out. He changed the locks. Two months later he is dating a new girl. One day a friend of mine and I were out and did a drive by of the house …. no one was home. We decided to see if my keys would still work to get some of my stuff that was still there. Keys didn’t work so we broke in through the open kitchen window. Upon going through the house I find she has pretty much moved into my house, her stuff was everywhere. Not to mention used condom wrappers on the night stand and a used pregnancy test in the trash. I find the digital camera my ex had gotten me for my birthday a few months before on his side of the bed. I turn it on and what do I find …. naked pictures of the new girlfriend!  So I took the camera and other stuff of mine in the house. Uploaded the nude pictures and saved them to my computer … may or may not have posted them to Facebook and tagged him in them :)

(Note: BecauseMollySaidSo.com does not condone breaking and entering…or really anything on this entire blog post at this point.)

A Friendly Game of Air Hockey

Once my ex was missing for 3 days, leaving me with a baby and no food or diapers. When his friend dropped him off, shitfaced, I smiled and thanked him. After his friend had left, I turned around and hauled off an upper right punch with all my might and hit him so hard in the eye that his thick glasses were broken and he had a shiner that could be seen from the next galaxy. He landed on an air hockey game, causing further damage. Out of work 2 weeks. He had a very difficult prescription for glasses, and in those days you had to wait for a lab to make them for you.

It was worth it.

Ass Kicked By A Girl

Last year at some point I met up with my ex for a late night. Obviously both of us were lonely, drunk… you know: your typical weekend night shenanigans that end up with you on your bedroom floor the next day hating yourself.

Well, after a little, how should I phrase it, “pillow fight” he got very blunt and says “You can leave now”… What? No recovery time? I’m exhausted, drunk (on the verge of feeling hungover) and you want me to leave???

I got so pissed/ angry/ hurt (cause hey- I can dream that he might change his ways and sweep me off my feet) that I punched him square in his face, knocking off his glasses. I’m talking straight haymaker, right hook, Mike tyson style punch. So while he was keeled over, holding his face for dear life, I walked off, slammed the front door of his apartment and proceeded to get into my car.

“Well look here!” I said to myself as I stared at his beautiful chromed out black jeep Cherokee and before you know it I was giggling to myself as I took my car keys and proceeded to frolic around his car keying the crap out of it.

Then, I got into my car, texted him “you got a nice car there”, drove off and waited a few minutes and drove by his house again. I beeped and waved as W saw him, dumfounded, staring at his beloved car in the middle of a school parking lot.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
Mama Knows Best

This story isn’t about me, but it’s about my mom in the 80′s. My mom is a pure-bred Quincy girl. She was the crazy, loud, funny, tough chick. She had this boyfriend back in her senior year of high school and suspected him of cheating on her. For the next couple weeks her and her best friend K would follow him home in K’s dad’s car. Finally one night they saw him take another girl in the house. The two of them climbed up a tree next to his house and slid in the open window, to find him banging this other chick. K started beating the shit out of this girl (who was stark naked) while my mom did the same to her now-ex boyfriend.

Car Trouble

I was dating a kid who cheated on me with a friend of mine. One night I saw her out at a bar. I went out in the parking lot and saw her car and wanted to key it or slash the tires … but a guy friend I was with told me to put oil in her gas tank. He just so happened to have a bottle of oil in his truck.  I made sure to put every last drop of oil in the bitch’s gas tank. Come to find out it ruined her entire car,  and they had to replace the entire engine and fuel lines :)

Taking The IOU To A Whole New Level

First off, Quincy guys are nuts too. Like, psycho. I kicked out a guy who had been living with me because he stole money from me. That night he slept on one of our mutual friends couches. When that friend came home from work the next day my ex was gone, and so was 200 bucks out of his undies drawer. The psycho part is that my ex thought he was being courteous by leaving an “IOU” except it wasn’t an IOU, it was a “Victoria owes you”. Yup, my ex wrote a note saying that I had ruined his life, so it was my fault that he needed the dough and I will pay him back. Luckily our friend found this ridiculous and didn’t come after me with a baseball bat and a horses head which is what I’m pretty sure my ex wanted.

Anddddd Saved The Most Psychotic For Last…

I had an old friend who was in the most psycho relationship going. The guy was a hard core junkie, and he beat the crap out of her all the time.   There was no trust on either part (nor was the trust really deserved because they were both crazy train and cheating on the other left and right).   So, one day, I get a call from the friend saying that she had enough of her man, and she put windshield washer fluid in his blue Gatorade before he went to work.   She asked me what I think she should do, should she tell him or just leave it
be.   He didn’t die, so I don’t know what the hell she did.

A few weeks later, I wake up to texted pics of what appears to be a naked 14 year old girl from a number I don’t recognize.  I start deleting, deleting, deleting thinking good lord some one’s framing me or something for child porn.  I was a step away from calling the cops on the psycho sending the texts when my cell rings from that old friend.   Before I can even begin to tell her about the craziness, she goes, can you believe that my boyfriend had these pics of this little girl on his phone?   He gave her drugs and had sex with her and took these pictures.   She goes on to say, I’m going to send them to her parents, but i want you to keep a copy for safe keeping.   I was like what?  No, i can’t keep these pictures, this is crazy.   You should call the cops on him.  She goes, no the girl’s 18.  She wouldn’t call, instead she had them printed off, and started a fight with him one night, and kept throwing different copies of the pics at him.  He ended up beating the crap out of her, their neighbors called the cops, and she climbed out of the window to get away from him, and basically landed at the cops feet.   The boyfriend was pulling at her hair so hard to pull her back into the apartment, he pulled out a chunk of her hair and scalp, that the cop found in the apartment.   He got arrested, somehow the child porn wasn’t discovered, and two weeks later they got back together- like everything was fine.  Then he bought her plastic surgery.

Another time, she went through his car looking for signs of cheating. She found genital wart cream instead. So, to get back with him, she sent out a mass text to all his and our friends letting us know that
he had genital warts.   I’m really not sure what she thought she was accomplishing by this because everyone assumed she had them too.   I’m just glad she wasn’t on Facebook!

Only in Quincy!

Well, now that I’ve lost in my faith in humanity, let’s give a hell yeah for the weekend! Hellllll yeaaahhhhhhh!

Stupid Shit by Elyse

Okay, so we all do stupid shit. I can think of some of the stories my girlfriends tell me and wonder, “How can you be so fucking dumb?”. Or the random shit we read/see on the internet. Like the video of the girl burning her fucking hair off in Molly’s announcement of me and Kristen joining the blog. I’d like to share with you some of the stupidest fucking things I have ever done (and this is just a short list, I apologize in advance if you lose all faith in humanity after reading this). Here goes:

  •  Sticking my tongue to a frozen mallet – Yeah, like a mallet you would pound a steak with; which ended up in our freezer because someone was trying to break up a huge block of ice. I would like to point out this is my mother’s fault as she doesn’t believe in ice cube trays “because everyone in this house is fucking lazy and no one fills them” (true) and she also because she would never buy a fridge that has an ice maker. Have I seen A Christmas Story a million fucking times? Yes. I obviously wasn’t using my fucking brain. Anyways, after running it under warm water I was released from the grip of the frozen mallet. My tongue felt like it had fucking frost bite for a while after that. Needless to say I don’t lick frozen metal objects anymore. (*Bonus: One of my sisters fucking licked the mallet too AFTER this happened to me! My mom still tells this story to everyone. Co-workers/strangers/friends/family. Yes so while other moms are bragging about their star athlete child my mom is laughing talking about how fucking slow her kids are.
  • Sitting my bare ass on a hot hair straightener – sounds like your worst nightmare, right ladies? Let me explain.. Getting ready is tough to do on the reg but it’s especially tough in the summer. You got the AC fucking cranking and you keep blowing the fuse because you have a million fucking things plugged in and running at the same time. Blow dryer, AC, radio, computer, hair straightner heating up – luckily I have that surge protector with 8 outlets. Party rock. Anyways, being hot and doing your hair in the summer is the worst. It makes you semi delusional and totally reckless because you are at the point where you are losing you fucking mind. So to try to keep as cool as possible I get ready in my undies… bad idea. I was on the verge of heat exhaustion from this hair session so I go to take a seat.  I sit right on the fucking hot hair straightener. It looked like I got fucking branded by Helen of Troy. I had  parallel burns from the plates right on my ass. Sitting down was difficult, I think I should have had physical therapy. I have never had such a pain in the ass, literally. To boot it was there for weeks and you could see it when I was in a bikini.   (*Another note about my mom: She fucking flipped when she saw this. She was like “What the fuck is that? How did that happen?” in an accusing tone. I acted offended and told her the story… still to this day I wonder what her initial thoughts were going through her mind.
  •  Driving my sisters car through my neighbors fence: After lots of convincing, my sisters live in boyfriend said he would let me drive. We lived in a small neighborhood where you would never go over 30mph anyways so he thought nothing could go wrong. BAD MOVE Dennis, lots can go wrong ,and it did. Fortunately for the citizens of Quincy I did not make it out of the driveway. Instead I proceeded to punch the gas and drive through my 90 year old neighbors house,  whom I am pretty sure shit her adult diaper when she saw what I did. Poor D tried to lie and say it was him but my mom and  sister knew that was bullshit. He ended up having to rebuild the fence. Hey, I know it’s a few years late but thanks for that!
  •  Painting my bedroom ceiling: So when I was a badass (who am I kidding? I still am), I used to smoke in my bedroom…a lot. So when I repainted my room and stopped smoking in there I wanted to paint the ceiling.  I did about 3 rolls with the roller and realized my arms are going to fucking fall off and there is no way I can complete this. So then my mind started working and I called my younger sister in. I bribed her with something and convinced her to help. She got a little farther than I did , but came to the same conclusion that it wasn’t going to happen. So my bedroom ceiling at my moms house is still half white/half smoke stained yellow. Sorry mom. At least my walls are still the colors of a Victoria’s Secret shopping bag.
  •  Lighting my mom’s kitchen on fire: Okay, so my mom is going to be pissed if she reads this entry. Me and my sister were getting buckwild up in my bedroom drinking red wine one night, and I decided I wanted to fix the wick on a candle. I had never actually done this before but I had seen it done and understood the concept. I put the candle in boiling water and was going to wait for the wax to soften and fix the wick. A great idea in theory…. except I got a little shitty and forgot about the candle. So my brother comes upstairs fucking flipping out on us because it is all smokey in the kitchen and we realize oh shit this is nahhhhht good. The next part is a blur so my siblings may need to clarify if it went down like this: I think my sister put a piece of paper or plastic in the pot and I put water on it.. and I guess candles and water/smoke/fire don’t mix because a huge fucking flame shot up (thank god I didn’t singe my brows because I barely have any as it is). I am pretty sure I dumped in my pants when this happened. I legit ran into the living room repeating “Do I call the fire department?!”. The fire went out after it shot up real quick. However my moms white cabinets and ceiling are covered with fucking black  soot. Let just say I haven’t attempted to fix a candle since.
  • Breaking furniture: Remember the bunk bed scene in the movie Step Brothers? And one of the dude’s  is all Montell Jordan “this is how we do it” (note I fucking love singing that line while  doing dumb shit)? Well I pretty much reenacted this scene unintentionally in real life. We were all hanging out having “big kid time” and I am all excited like Quagmire, giggity giggity, happy as a mother fucking clam excited and I hop on the bed like a jubilant bunny. Except I am not a bunny I am a grown woman and the fucking thing cames right out from the bottom. It was all very fast but I definitely remember hearing wood cracking or buckling while simultaneously falling to the ground. It was like a game of Don’t Break The Ice but in this case the “Ice” was a bed frame. My brother was PISSED. SHIT GOT REAL REAL QUICK. He knew I didn’t do it intentionally so couldn’t yell at me, but I am pretty sure his head was about to fucking explode.
  • Crushed my Christmas Tree: So I went Black Friday shopping for the first time this year. It really wasn’t that bad. An Elvis impersonator showed up at Target. The purpose of our trip was to purchase a new TV (oh, that shit the bed a week later), but I really just went for the fake Christmas tree sale. So I get the tree. It is pretty decent for $30 – 6ft tall and good for an apartment. Even after the TV shit the bed I still feel we made out and Black Friday wasn’t a total waste because of the tree…that was until I got drunk. I like to rip Marbs and drink various types of alcohol whilst chit chatting on the phone in my bathrobe on my porch. I do this almost every weekend. This night was no different. I had finished my butt and came inside and still had that 14 year old who just started smoking rush because I was drunk and tripped over a fucking flipper. Yes a flipper like scuba steve flippers. Why the fuck I have flippers under my Christmas tree next to my back door in December? I don’t know. Anyways, I fell like a ton of bricks and fucked that tree up beyond repair. RIP.

What is the dumbest fucking thing you have done? Does it top any of the shit listed above? Let us know! Send us your dumbass stories to bcmollysaidso@gmail.com ATTN Elyse in the subject line.

XMAS

Going Out To Eat Ettiquette

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Don’t know about you, but I love going out to eat.  Dinner and drinks with friends a couple times a week is ideal for me. But going out to eat with a group of people can quickly get frustrating if you are dining out with even one cheap asshole, let alone multiple. Here are a few of the most common scenarios that cheap assholes might add to your plate:

The Asshole Who Is Rude To The Server: How embarrassing is it when someone you are with is rude to the wait staff? I have always thought that waiting tables has to be the most annoying job in the world. On your feet all day. Carrying around giant platters of drinks and hot food while  tipsy patrons walk around aimlessly looking for the bathroom, bumping into shit all over the place. I feel guilty even asking for a refill when the restaurant is busy and the waiter is looking flustered, so I try to be as polite as possible, thanking the fuck out of the waitstaff and what not. Think about how picky the public is with their food, and think about how much abuse waiters get when the food isn’t up to par? Realistically the waiters are just the messengers, taking the order, and bringing the order out after the chef cooks it. No need to be a total douchebag to the waitstaff over something that is not their fault. It makes you look bad and embarrasses the people you are with. Just because it is this person’s job to serve you, doesn’t mean you are above them. You should be polite and nice, as you should be to everyone who has done nothing to deserve harsh treatment. Being rude to for no good reason doesn’t make you look better than anyone, it only makes you look like the scum of the earth.

The Asshole Who Doesn’t Understand That Food Is Taxed: Brush up on your US history/common knowledge. Food is taxed. Incorporate that tax into you bill. Then pay it, asshole.

The Asshole Who Undertips: Undertipping is bad enough, but my biggest pet peeve is when someone undertips and are a part of a giant group. Say you go out at as a group to an upscale restaurant that adds gratuity to the bill and some cheap asshole you are with doesn’t even take a look at the bill and does not realize that the gratuity was automatically added in. I mean, I think you should just assume it is added in so you can avoid being an asshole/people thinking you are cheap, but that’s just me. Anyways, said cheap asshole believes the service wasn’t that great (you probably notice this particular person ALWAYS  believes the service isn’t up to their standard, but when you are one person serving a table of 10, consider how difficult it is to serve to perfection). Due to the service being sub-par, this person decides they will only leave 15%. Uhh, but 20% was added in. So unless this person puts aside their pride and throws in the extra few bucks, the bill will be short, and in the midst of confusion that happens when 10 people are  trying to figure out a bill with 10 meals and 30 drinks on it, someone who paid enough usually will have to cough up more money because there is ONE cheap asshole in the mix. If there is more than one cheap asshole in the mix, the pot grows bigger and while they intended only to be a douche to the waitstaff, they’ve managed to also be a douche to their friends. Ugh.

The Asshole Who Dips Out Early Without Leaving Enough: I find that 7 out of 10 times that one member of the party leaves early, they don’t leave enough money because they conveniently forget that they had 5 mixed drinks as opposed to the 3 they think they had. Then you  feel petty calling them out because it’s only a few bucks. Sorry that you like to think you aren’t a lush, but you are, so you might want to wait for the bill next time before bouncing out. If you aren’t going to split it evenly with the rest of the party you are with, try not to dip til it’s figured out.

The Asshole Who Is Obsessively & Precisely Cheap: No matter the size of the group dining together, could be two people, could be 15, I hate when people are obsessively precise about what is owed. It’s much easier on everyone to just split the bill evenly (unless you have someone who chronically orders tons of appetizers and pricey drinks). That said, if you owe $2.50 less than the person you are with because the mozza-fucking-rella sticks were cheaper than the muchos nachos, why not just take it as a loss and split the bill right down the middle? Are people really THAT petty? We are speaking about a few dollars here, guy. Don’t be an idiot.

The Asshole Who Refuses To Buy A Round: This scenario is more of a bar scene issue. Ever been with that guy who has never reciprocated when you buy a round? And people always warn you not to get a round when you are with that guy, but let’s face it, you’re drunk and happy so you yell out “Next rounds on me!”! and you include him/her in it because you aren’t petty. When someone buys me a drink, I try my very best to reciprocate and if it’s the end of the night and you have no time to grab another round, you give this person a verbal I owe you, or throw them a couple bucks if they sprung for like 5 peoples’ drinks. Check yourself before you wreck yourself: reciprocate. People notice if you are a chronic offender.

The Asshole Who Remembers Ever Single Time You Owe Them A Drink: I guess this kind of stems off the “I owe you” thing. And I also guess maybe I am a sucker, but if someone owes me a drink, I’m not going to bring it up 2 minutes into sitting down at the bar.  I like to think I’m not petty and cheap enough to harass someone into buying me a $4 draft beer. Nothing more annoying than hearing “Remember that time last November I bought you that Shipyard Pumpkin?”. No, I don’t, because it’s 4 months later and I can afford my own Shipyard Pumpkin and if I couldn’t I probably shouldn’t be sitting on a bar stool, rather on a beat up futon in my mom’s basement sipping on Miller High Life that I stole from my dad (my mom doesn’t have a futon in her basement, I just wanted to express that if you can’t afford a beer, you have bigger problems than worrying about who owes you beer money from months prior). I’m always grateful when someone is nice and buys me a drink. But that doesn’t mean they need to hound me to reciprocate. At some point, I will hit you back.

The Asshole Who Busts Out A Calculator Rather Than Rounding Up: It’s fine to use technology to make sure you are tipping properly, but  no need to bust out your Samsung fucking Galaxy to divide the tax evenly. It’s calling ROUNDING UP and it only costs you a couple cents. I mean, you serious?

The common denominator here is that sometimes us non cheap assholes feel petty calling out those cheap assholes for being cheap. We feel petty because we don’t care about throwing in an extra few dollars so we can enjoy dinner and drinks and a fun night. So we say nothing. And the cheap assholes don’t know they are being cheap assholes. To all you non cheap assholes out there, I recommend that you send this blog to your cheap asshole friends so they get the hint by the end of this paragraph. Or just stop going out to eat with them, either or. No one likes a cheapy.