Relationship drama is the worst kind of drama. Studies have shown
that relationship drama started as early as three million years ago
during the days of the dinosaurs. Some Triceratops wanted to date
Tyrannosaurus rex, but its parents thought it would eat her. The
Triceratops got knocked up, everybody freaked out, and then an
asteroid came along and destroyed them all anyway. Later on, this
woman Mary (maybe you’ve heard of her) got preggers without even
touching a man’s wee wee. And if science tells us anything, it’s
that dry humping can lead to conception, and that dinosaurs pooped
out eggs.
Relationships are insane. Insane because they can’t be explained rationally
to anyone who isn’t currently in a relationship. It doesn’t matter whether the
relationship is healthy or not because to single people, you couples have all of
these crazy rituals/traditions/commitment that we don’t really understand.
For example, the other day while walking down Sunset, my roommates and I saw
a girl wearing denim high-heeled boots, with a different color denim mini-skirt,
with a different color denim vest, over a (you guessed it) flannel shirt. And
no, she wasn’t competing in a Miss Canada pageant—she was holding hands and
having a makeout fest with a guy that looked like an Abercrombie model.
"Love is not really love when you say it with your clothes
off after three pina coladas."
Why does every girl, once she’s
in a secure relationship, start dressing in sweats, or think she can
pull off a Canadian tuxedo in public? Because you know she wasn’t
dressing like a scarecrow in the beginning of the relationship. No,
that severely misguided fashion sense began to rear its
unfashionable head at least six months into the relationship, after
something emotionally tragic happened and they were there for each
other, but not before one of them drunkenly confessed their love for
the other one, and pretended to not remember the next morning.
Why do girls do that? All the time they get drunk and out of their mouths
comes
the word “Love”. Love means you’re willing to help him get through his knee
surgery by carrying around his backpack for weeks on end. Love is cleaning up
his vomit when he’s sick/hungover—and love is also not mentioning how gross it
was the next morning. Love is not really love when you say it with your clothes
off after three pina coladas.
Long distance relationships are very confusing to the single crowd. It’s not
that we don’t get why you love someone hundreds or even thousands of miles away.
It’s what you can talk about on the phone for two hours every night that keeps
us guessing. That’s fine if it’s phone sex—but even if that takes 45 minutes,
and then you add a 15 minute “How
was your day?” conversation, that still leaves another hour. What the hell
are you yapping on about for all that time? I’d run out of things to say by the
third day! “Hey hon, what did you do today?” “Nothing.” “Really?” “Nothing
happened to you today?” “Um, I discovered an ingrown hair. Have you found any
blemishes on your body in the past 12 hours since we last talked?”
There’s one ridiculously hot man in my building, who here on out will be
referred to as “Ken Doll.” Not only do we call him that because he’s got the
perfect face and the perfect body, but also because he’s got the perfect Barbie
girlfriend. It’s like some little girl’s Christmas wish came true and now there
are two life size Mattel dolls roaming free around the city. And you know
they’re going to end up in Malibu with matching convertibles, and you’re
terrified your Ken Doll is going to come damaged with a half melted face, and
drive off into the sunset in his ‘93 Camry towards Pittsburgh.
Five weeks ago when I started school I met a bunch of girls who straight out
bragged about their strong emotional connection with their boyfriends. “We’ve
been connected since birth! We’re meant to be! Our lives are like The
Notebook!” I smiled and kept my mouth shut, but what are the odds that your
first relationship is the only one you’ll ever be in. About as good a chance as
pooping out that dinosaur egg.
Trying to create a relationship is so hard for some people. Besides Ken Doll,
there’s another guy on campus that the students have dubbed, “Mr. McFuckMe.” The
guy is like that construction worker from that early 90’s Diet Coke commercial.
He’s smart and nice enough to realize that he’s the Johnny Depp of musical
theater, and very much like Captain Jack Sparrow he’s very much involved in only
his work. So the only piece his fingers are touching is his keyboard.
I have helped more girlfriends of mine set up for their boyfriends’ surprise
parties and their weekend getaways than I care to remember. Girls always want to
give so much of themselves in a relationship. “Here babe, finish my drink. Eat
the rest of my fries. Take my virginity.” And do you guys know what we want in
exchange? Your fucking sweater to sleep in. What kind of bartering system is
that? The Amish would kick us out of their town. “Here’s a sock. I’ll take a
wedge of cheese, two horses, that ox, and your house. But the sock smells like
me so I feel it’s an even trade.”
If you ever come to Hollywood, never buy a map that’s a
guide to the stars’ homes. Or pay to go on a celebrity home tour bus.
Celebrities like their privacy; they pay good money to keep their windows
guarded from paparazzi. Do you really think that a tourist in bad cargo shorts
and a fanny pack is going to get a shot of their home? Of course not! Those
tours should be called, “Tour of the star’s extensive landscaping and wrought
iron fence.”
Recently my roommate got liberal with her dry-erase marker and created a
mural on our refrigerator door. Turns out the black marker, unlike the 27
other colors she used, doesn’t come off. How the hell are we going to explain
that when the RA looks over our room? “Well you see, an overgrown toddler
stumbled into our room from the Maury show and wrote ‘FUCK’ on the fridge
with a smiley face and left.”
