Anal Sex…It Happened

Let me begin by saying that people are free to do whatever they want to do and I will not judge them for enjoying, as a friend put it, “taking it up the poop chute”. If that’s what you’re into, I totally support you for being you and enjoying your chosen recreational activities. But I can certainly judge myself, and I’m judging hardcore. I’m judging myself mostly for being very unprepared. Apparently, there is physical preparation to fully enjoy the anal sex experience (if you cringed while reading that I guarantee I cringed way worse while writing that). Like lube, and stretching, or something like that. I don’t know and I don’t care to google the details right now. There is also mental preparation. This involves thinking really hard about whether this is actually something you want to do. Here is an example thought you may want to have before doing the dirty: Do I really want someone up in the place I just excreted last night’s tacos? Now that I am an older, more mature person, I can definitively say, “No, I would like the path last night’s tacos took to remain unmolested by foreign objects.” But that’s now and I’m talking about then.

I’m talking about the Carly who decided with her boyfriend that doing it from behind would be a big turn on and, well, the rest of the story is incredibly painful to hear, but probably not as painful as it was for me to get an anal-sphincter-full of some guy’s dick. It felt like reverse constipation. I don’t even know if that makes sense, but that’s what it felt like. Maybe it’d be clearer to say it felt like I was birthing a baby out of my asshole. Or maybe that was just a more disgusting way to convey what I was feeling at that moment. Perhaps the worst part was that I was on someone’s couch when it happened. Not even my own couch. Which, now that I think about it, was probably for the best. I don’t know how the guy felt, but years later I have discovered that I have an apparently pretty hairy butthole, so it couldn’t have been that great for him either. The view was most likely akin to a bathroom sink drain after it has been clogged by a million hairs. By now, you’re already flooded with odious mental images at this point, so I’ll just finish you off by saying that afterwards I had painful diarrhea.

They say college is a time for experimentation. I think I can confidently say I experimented and my laboratory is now animal-cruelty-free and will no longer accept hypotheses dealing with objects entering assholes.

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Sticks and Stones will Break My Bones and Also Words Are the Worst :(

I’m sensitive. Really fucking sensitive. Like, if someone critiques my work in a non-professional environment (i.e. random troll from internet/my ex-boyfriend’s aunt) I get all sweaty and shaky. I can clearly recognize my sensitivity problem, and yet when someone points it out to me I want to simultaneously cry a thousand tears and rip their face off (a perfect example of being too sensitive). Let us observe some more examples of my off-the-charts sensitivity.

  • When I got my driver’s license at 16, my picture was beyond horrible (still is actually, since I never changed it). I look 10x tanner than I am, which would be good for some people, but for me it made me look, as one friend put it, “like a wood person. You know, like you’re from a race of people made out of wood”. The flash of the camera caused a diamond-shaped white blotch on my forehead, giving me the resemblance of a Palomino horse. My hair is unbrushed and I’m wearing a “Wicked” shirt (which most people think is on purpose but in reality was a result of not looking at my clothes when I put them on). When my sister and mom got hold of my license, they laughed so hard they started crying. I was crying for an entirely different reason. Please see the picture below and promise not to blackmail me.

Drivers License

  • I recently asked my boyfriend if I was “high maintenance, medium maintenance, or low maintenance”. Clearly fishing for a “low maintenance”, I received a “low-to-high maintenance”, which in hindsight totally isn’t that bad. But instead, I gasped and punched him in the nipple and he said “You’re kind of proving my point” and then I was upset the rest of the night.
  • I decided to tell my dad the plot of the first screenplay I had ever written (which took me months of work), and after I had finished, he said, “You know what would be even better? If in the end the guy actually had committed the murder”. By writing off the entire third act of my first screenplay (which, yes, is terrible), I could barely suppress my tears-slash-anger at my father. What sucked even more was that even though I was in school for this exact thing and he had never taken a single class, therefore giving me an air of superiority, I liked his freaking ending better than the one I had. I don’t really remember exactly how I reacted, but I guarantee it wasn’t a jolly ol’ “Thanks for the feedback, Pops.”

I could give you 8 million more examples of me being overly sensitive, ESPECIALLY in relationships (I have no idea how Boyfriend puts up with me). And while I want to get better at this in my personal life, I need to get better at it in my professional life. The more people that read my blog, the more opinions there are about it. While a lot of them are very positive, we all know that everyone has opinions and some of them are negative and even valid. So, my goal for 2015 (particularly because I want to be in a profession that depends on public feedback) is to accept legitimate criticisms with an air of maturity. And for the people who put me down just to be a troll, well… I’m going to work on not give a flying fuck what the aunt of my ex-boyfriend thinks about the fact that I curse.

EDIT: I asked my sister to read this post and give me feedback and she said in a complete deadpan, “It’s fine.””That’s it? Just, ‘It’s fine’? Things you liked, didn’t like?” “There’s not much I can say. It’s just fine. Remember, taking criticism!” She said that last part with the most in-your-face-shit-eating-grin and I now want to rip my hair out. Clearly this is a work in progress.

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A Rant Spawned By the Engagement of a High School Classmate

I’m lying in bed after stopping halfway through cleaning my room because I got tired, which means all my clothes, sheets, and pillows are on my floor and my room looks worse than when I started, and I see on Facebook that a girl from my high school class is engaged to a good-looking guy with tattoos and seriously? Meanwhile I still have a Where the Wild Things Are poster in my bedroom and I rent a room from a single mom and her daughter and I’m an Administrative Assistant and I’m wearing an oversize flannel but it doesn’t look cute it just makes me look obese (Rant within a rant: how does every girl look adorable when she wears her boyfriend’s clothes, but when I wear my boyfriend’s clothes I look like I weigh 3,000 pounds and he agrees). Not to mention last night I got home from work at 7 and instead of partying I went to Ralph’s in my ugly pajamas and bought microwave popcorn and cheesy ricecakes and hot chocolate and ate it in bed until I fell asleep. So this girl is getting married while I still sleep in until 11 and I still sometimes eat mini Snickers for breakfast because I convince myself that 5 mini Snickers are less calories than a regular size Snickers and I still have acne and I still haven’t lost my baby fat and I still listen to Taylor Swift’s latest albums on repeat and I still feel like I don’t really have close friends and isn’t that what we’re supposed to feel like in our 20s? But instead my high school class is put-together and beautiful and engaged and I think this is what an early-life crisis feels like.

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What Apartment Ads in Los Angeles Should Really Say

I recently had the pleasure of my lease getting pulled out from under me at the last minute (okay, technically they told me the move-out date when I signed the lease a year ago, but who pays attention to the fine print? Why didn’t they at least send a friendly reminder about it?!). Houseless and alone in Los Angeles, I went on a three-week-house-hunting binge. I shudder to look back on it. The places I saw… I thought I was getting punked at some of these vacancies. Granted, I had a small budget (less than eight hundred), but still! Let’s review some of the hellholes by reading what the housing ads should have said:

One Bed, One Bath. Mid-Wilshire. $800: Please don’t be worried when the landlord doesn’t show up until thirty minutes after your appointment time. You can pass the time away by having a friendly conversation with the local gang member. When let into this apartment, don’t worry that the kitchen has zero appliances. We’re sure you’ll figure something out. What’s that? You seem surprised by the fact that there is a semi-circle cut out of the bathroom door! It’s just so the door can still open – see, the toilet fits perfectly in the cutout! Yes, we understand no one who ever uses that bathroom will have any privacy. No, we didn’t think about opening the door the other way. Live here only if it’s your last resort!

One Bed in a House, Burbank. $850: It’s clear that this house is absolutely gorgeous and awesome and tucked away in a super cool neighborhood. The only drawbacks are the two old men who live here. As long as you can endure their forty-five minute interview with questions and comments like, “What do your parents do?” “What is your social security number?” “You don’t wear makeup. I like that. My ex-wife never wore makeup”, you’ll be fine! Don’t be alarmed when they call you later and beg you to move in with them because you were the most normal out of everyone they interviewed. And you had boobs.

One Bed in a Two Bed Apt., La Cienega. $725: This apartment is great. The parking is amazing. The location is to die for. The set back? The lady you’ll be sharing the apartment with who doesn’t speak English, watches soap operas in a variety of languages all day, offers you chocolate repeatedly, and at the last second demands that every payment be made in cash. You may or may not start to believe your mom’s joke about how this lady killed the last tenant by feeding her candy and putting her in the oven.

One Bed in a House, Glendale, $550: Finally, the perfect fit! A bed in a house with a single mom and her daughter. They offer you full reign of the fully stocked pantry. They have two cats. They have air conditioning. This is it, you’ve finally found it! You’ll move in, you’ll get settled, and then you’ll find out the ex-wife wants to meet you before you move in and the mom tells her daughter “Can you pretend Carly doesn’t live here?” and the daughter says, “What if I can’t?” So, you’ll meet the ex-wife and pretend you’re just looking at the place when really you’ve already moved in and when everyone leaves the house you’ll realize you left your keys in your room that for the moment is not even your room and you’ll sit on the curb and wait for them to come back.

(Side note: I still live in the room in the Glendale house and I actually really like it, except for the occasional fight between exes and the ten-year-old running into my room and holding up the bra I threw on the floor and saying, “Ooooh!”)

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Note to Self: Don’t Housesit for Rich People with Neurotic Dogs

One of the worst things that can happen to an awkward, clumsy person such as myself is when your boss gives you a job that deals with their personal life. While not said aloud, there’s always a threat looming beneath each request. For example, “Please drive my car from location A to location B” clearly implies “You will pay for each scratch in blood.” This past Labor Day weekend, my boss offered me some extra cash if I stayed at his house and watched his dog while he was out of town. Two things you should know about my boss: His dog is his life. Any harm that comes to her will be multiplied tenfold on the person who inflicted said harm. (I wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment for more than three hours because he was worried about the emotional stress this would put the dog through; that’s how much he’s into this dog). He also lives in a very fancy apartment filled with very fancy things (I’m pretty sure the living room rug cost more than my yearly salary). Two things you should know about me: I am clumsy. His dog hates me.

Despite the fact that all odds were against me, things went fairly well (there was a moment of panic when I dropped avocado on the rug, but it rubbed in nicely). The dog, who normally runs under the bed when I approach with a leash and growls when I attempt to pet her, actually began to warm up to me. I was starting to get used to ritzy life on the West Side. The bed was the biggest perk about the apartment. The only way to describe sleeping in the guest bed is to compare it to sleeping on a bed full of puppies. The down comforter was so soft I considered stealing it. I would’ve been okay dying on that bed. It was as white as a cloud, and felt like one too. I started to get comfortable. Too comfortable. So comfortable that I convinced Boyfriend to make out with me, only to have the dog jump onto the bed and scare the shit out of us. We tried to take things further while she sat on the floor and watched. It was unsettling, to say the least. I felt like she was condemning us to Doggy Hell, taking notes of all the things to relay to her Dad when he returned. Luckily, dogs can’t talk and snitch on the babysitter, which is the same reason I only babysit children under the age of one.

Paranoid there was a Teddy Cam watching us, I resigned myself to reclining on the cloud-bed and playing Mario Kart 8 with Boyfriend. After a successful Grand Prix, I got up from the bed and went to get water (even the water tasted amazing) when I heard, “Caaaarrllyyy!” I ran into the room to find the dog hunched on top of the snow white comforter, about to lose her dinner. Without thinking, I lunged onto the bed, arms outstretched like a running back in the endzone, and before I knew it she was retching into my cupped hands, filling them with kibble, saliva, and probably some of her own poop. Boyfriend stared at me, horrified, holding back a gag, as I mechanically walked back to the kitchen to wash my hands. Then I heard it again. “It’s happening!” I ended up getting a handful of dog vomit twice that night, and while it’s much easier to wash my hands than a pure white comforter that costs more than my life insurance, Boyfriend refused to get near me for the rest of the weekend.

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Apparently I Have an Abnormally High Sex Drive

I’m pretty sure I’m the stereotypical guy in every relationship. It doesn’t help that to start off I’m not a very “girly” person. I rarely wear makeup, I fail at shaving my legs consistently, and when I try and shop for semi-nice clothes I always end up buying six graphic t-shirts. I literally called my mother the other day to ask if it was okay to pee while wearing a tampon (The answer is Yes, or in my mother’s words, “What are you, 12? The urethra is a completely different thing from your uterus”). That’s how bad I am at being a girl.

None of this really bothers me, though. What bothers me is that I always seem to have a higher sex drive than all the guys I date. Don’t get me wrong; I’m definitely not obsessed with sex or anything. I’m just always the one to start it. And if we go a certain number of days without sex, the number is like one of those flipcharts at a warehouse, except instead of Days Without Injury, it’s Days Without Sex. This was first called to my attention when an Ex and I were doing a Seventeen Magazine Couples Quiz. Yes, I want to kill myself right now too. So, we were doing this stupid quiz, and one of the questions was, “Would you say your sex drive is low, normal, or high?” Ex subsequently puts his foot in his mouth and replies, “Yours is definitely higher than mine.” I had a sudden flashback montage reliving all of our Sexy Times in which, yep, I definitely started it every time. I became instantly embarrassed at my apparent tendency to be a sex-crazed horndog (although this shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering I told a guy I loved him just to get in his pants).

Since that moment, I’ve been acutely aware that I seem to have a higher sex drive than most of the boys I date. (Thanks Seventeen Magazine, for ruining my life one couples quiz at a time). I’m the one trying to feel up my boyfriend during a movie while he distractedly pushes my hand away so he can appreciate the dialogue. I’m the one trying to make out with my boyfriend at eleven pm while he explains he has work in the morning and has to get up early. And I’m the one who gets antsy if we haven’t had sex in a week and worries why it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with a female friend who echoed my sentiments that I didn’t feel like a complete freak. And honestly maybe it just seems weird because in our culture, guys are the ones who are typically portrayed as wanting sex all the time. Well, whatever. I have now come to terms with the fact that, yes, I have a higher sex drive than the boys I date. No, it does not mean I’m a sex addict. No, it does not mean they’re not attracted to me. Yes, I need to learn how to properly masturbate and get over my fear of vibrators. But that’s a story for another post.

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One Summer I Lived In a Frat House. It Was Exactly How You Would Imagine It.

The summer between sophomore and junior year I lived in a frat house. This was less personal choice and more because I was working a full-time, unpaid internship and rent at the frat house was only $300 a month. I soon learned why. Originally, my friend and I had planned to stay in the room together which was much less daunting than being the only girl in a frat house of guys. But then she started dating her TA and they moved in together that summer and I was left alone with a giant room in a house full of bros. I desperately wanted these backwards-hat-wearing-tank-top-adorned-alcoholics to defy the stereotypes of west coast frats, mainly because I had this dream where over the course of the summer they befriended me, a non-sorority bumpkin, in some sort of twisted Breakfast Club fantasy. Alas, it was not meant to be. 

My first encounter with a Frat Bro™ occurred when I struggled to move my mattress up the two flights of stairs and into my room. With no one to help me move, I resorted to asking one of the Frat Bros milling about for some assistance. Grinning with that self-assured confidence that his muscles were needed, he hefted my mattress onto his shoulders and began singing, “It’s a Man’s World” as he moved the mattress into my room. I don’t even think that’s a real song. I think he made it up just for that occasion. (And goddammnit, it was a catchy tune. I found myself humming it in the shower one morning). The next three months consisted of: a Frat Bro’s dog pooping in the kitchen and no one cleaning it up; me making the mistake of not wearing shoes and discovering the floor is sticky for a million mysterious and yet probably obvious reasons; the Frat Bro in the room next to mine offering to vacuum my room. Shirtless. And you know what, I let him, because he had nice abs and it was clearly of his own free will and my carpet needed cleaning.

I eventually realized I had to move out when my room was broken into not once, but twice. The first time was fairly innocent. It was the one night I forgot to lock my bedroom door, and at three in the morning a Frat Bro burst in exclaimed, “Can I borrow your couch?!” as if he were MacGyver and the couch was the only thing between him and de-activating a bomb. It was hard to make such an executive decision of my personal belonging at three in the morning, but after a quick pros/cons list consisting of ‘Frat Bro will owe me a favor/couch will be ruined forever’, I decided against it. So he left and I locked the door. The next weekend I went home to visit my mom, and when I returned my door was smashed off its hinges, a wooden mattress frame was in the middle of my room, the carpet was covered in glass, and a broken printer rested in my underwear drawer. Apparently, awesome parties at the frat house involved breaking down doors and throwing shit into random rooms. Terrified that this would happen while I was in the room and I would accidentally get a mouth full of printer, I moved out. I ended up never paying, but no one said anything about it. Someday in the future, I may repay my deb and Kappa Phi Whatever will receive a check in the mail for the $300 with the memo: Never again.

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The Pooping Code

 My parents must have messed up somewhere along the line because both my sister and I hate to poop. It was worse for my sister than it was for me (though I’ve plugged my fair share of toilets). When she was a toddler, she actually had to routinely get that thing that goes up your butt (an enema?) because she would hold her poop in for so long (like, a week), and when she finally gathered the courage to let it go, it was this giant elephant poop that had to be removed from the toilet by a parent because there was no way that thing was fitting down the pipe. Maybe it was my weekly experience eating prunes with my sister to coax her colon that led to a very unhealthy relationship with pooping.

To this day, my sister (we’ll call her Squiggy) and I have a Pooping Code. It’s as follows:

  1. Never poop in a public restroom. Pooping in a public place is akin to killing a baby rabbit with your bare hands. You don’t do it unless it’s absolutely necessary to your survival. If pooping in a public restroom is inevitable, remember these guidelines:
    1. Find a restroom that is far removed from all civilization. Squiggy used to walk across her college campus in the dead of winter, through snow and sleet, to reach the one vacant bathroom
    2. Wait until the entire bathroom is clear of all people
    3. If someone walks into the bathroom during the poop, said poop will immediately be sucked back up
    4. If there’s no avoiding c), cough loudly and jangle the toilet paper to cover all pooping noises
    5. Go as fast as your body will allow; long disappearances to a bathroom immediately alert everyone and anyone that you just pooped. It’s best to go at a time when everyone is preoccupied, like during the Super Bowl or a state emergency
  2. If you are sharing a hotel room with someone and you never get the room to yourself, wait to poop until you have to shower. When you enter the bathroom, let the shower run and then poop. This should cover up all suspicions of pooping and any noises that may occur. Negative side effects: You will be directly contributing to the drought
  3. The Poop and Swoop (Squiggy’s signature move): To avoid poop water splashing onto you, immediately lift your buttocks up after the poop drops
  4. Never admit to clogging the toilet. EVER. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve done it (a lot). NEVER admit to it. (I once stayed at an Ex’s house and held the poop in so long that I inevitably clogged the toilet…which flooded the bathroom. It was obviously me, but I never admitted to it. I just ignored it until his friends got tired of making fun of me for it).
  5. If there is absolutely no way to poop without people knowing, you must hold the poop until the opportunity presents itself. This could be days. (I tried pooping at Boyfriend’s, but knowing that he was the only other person in the apartment made it impossible for me. When I came back out and said, “I can’t”, he asked, “So it’s just gonna stay in there all night? Where will it go?!”)
  6. If you are pooping at home, take as long as you want and ignore any family member who tries to rush you

While the code still remains, I am getting better about overcoming my fear of pooping. The other day, I even managed to poop at Boyfriend’s apartment while he was still there! And knew I was doing it! He gave me a high-five after I was done (and had washed my hands).

And that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know about me and my relationship with poop.

I Asked a Guy Out. He Said No.

Freshman year of college I was ecstatic about the possibility of dating. I went to a very, very small high school and didn’t date at all, so when I started undergrad with 16,000 other undergrads, half of whom had a penis, I knew there had to be at least one boy who would ask me out. I was wrong. Instead of focusing on the fact that out of 8,000 guys, none had the courage/drive/willingness to ask me out, I decided that I was going to take the initiative. So, as a freshman filled with the boundless sense of possibility, I decided to ask a guy out. I had the perfect target: Cute Boy from one of my smaller classes, who I had hung out with once outside of class and got positive vibes from (We watched the Dark Knight in his common room together! There was minimal space between us on the couch!). The week before I mustered up the courage to ask him out was spent giving myself a pep talk about progressive women and the badassery of Sadie Hawkins and how fucking awesome I would be for asking a guy out instead of waiting the other way around.

Since I’m a perfectionist, I wanted the actual asking out to be creative and perfect. The Google Search Story was extremely popular at this point, and Google even made a tool to make your own video in the style of the heartwarming commercial. I set to work, inputting all the things Cute Boy and I had in common, incorporating searches like “Asking out a friend” and “The Dark Knight showtimes”. I had the perfect opportunity to show it to Cute Boy when we were paired together on a project. Heart beating wildly, I asked him to stop by my dorm to check out the progress I made on our project. He skated over that night (he was in college and still had a skateboard. He was that cool) and I could barely contain my excitement as he sat down in front of my laptop and pressed ‘Play’.

He watched the whole thing with me hovering awkwardly over his shoulder. When the video finished, he turned to me. Except, instead of the embarrassed but flattered smile I was expecting, he looked very uncomfortable. “Um…I’m actually kind of interested in this other girl.” I took a second before recovering like a champ. “Oh, dude. Man. Bro-stest with the most-est. That is totally cool.” I think I tried to man it up in an effort to suddenly align myself as a guy friend as opposed to a potential girlfriend. I stopped just short of “Is she hot?” After two minutes of absolutely excruciating watch-a-puppy-get-tortured small talk in which I masculinized myself to the point of nearly growing testicles, he skated away like the coolest kid around. I watched him go, wanting to die of embarrassment in between thoughts of “FUCK FEMINISM. FUCK SADIE HAWKINS. FUCK BOYS WHO STILL OWN SKATEBOARDS IN COLLEGE.” Unfortunately, I still had four months of class with him and a group project to finish. I managed to make it through each of our awkward encounters, acting as if it was no big deal at all (although when he accidentally fell out of his chair one class I laughed really hard and really loud. I like to believe it was my own twisted form of vengeance). In the end, I learned that if you’re not sure the person you’re asking out will say yes, do not go elaborate. That Google Search Story was the goddamn most adorable thing I had ever done, and it went to waste on someone who didn’t like me back.

P.S. I’m sorry for cursing your name, Sadie Hawkins. You seem like a really cool person.
P.P.S. Upon a quick Google search, Sadie Hawkins was not actually a real-life progressive woman and God is dead.

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I Almost Killed My Housemate’s Pet

Dear Blue House,

It’s been two years, and I think it’s finally time for me to move on. Why, you ask? How about the fact that there are ten people living there and only two showers? Or what about the dead cockroaches that the pest control people killed and left behind? Or the wannabe opera singer who never stops practicing? I’ve heard stories about exotic pet babysitters, and that pimp who threw knives at the sorority girls. But now that I’ve experienced my own traumatic experience, it’s time for me to go.

—-

With ten housemates, you’re bound to live with some weirdos. Room 6, otherwise known as Spike, listens to 80s Russian metal music non-stop, wears a pirate earring, and asked me to lace up his corset on Halloween. Spike and I have never gotten along. Maybe it’s because I like to think of myself as fairly normal and Spike sacrifices baby lambs in his room on full moons (most likely). Our mutual dislike began one afternoon, around seven months ago, when I opened the freezer to retrieve my dinner of frozen tater tots (this was when I was still single, okay?!), but instead of Trader Joe’s delicious package of Food for the Lonely, a dead, frozen white mouse fell out of the freezer and on to me. I hate dead animals. I physically shudder when I see roadkill. Alone in the kitchen with a dead mouse on the floor and no one around to get rid of it, I was the sole person responsible for putting it back in the freezer before it defrosted and we had to clean up melted mouse. After staring at the mouse in horror for five minutes, I threw it back in the freezer accompanied by the sticky note “Who has a dead mouse in the freezer and why??? That is disgusting!”. A new sticky note appeared a day later with the message, “It’s for Spike’s pet.” STRIKE ONE, SPIKE. STRIKE ONE.

Strike two occurred several months later. Just arriving home from work, I happily jogged up to the door that led to my bedroom when I spotted something curled up by the back gate. As I stepped closer, I realized with a shock that I was staring at a dead three-foot-long bull python, curled up in a ball. The only things I hate more than dead animals are snakes. They don’t have legs so HOW DO THEY MOVE. It’s not natural. I held back the gags and ran past it into the house. I’ve never seen any snakes in the area, so my mind immediately went to Spike’s pet. I knocked on the door of the only housemate that was Spike’s friend, and after inspecting the dead snake he confirmed that it was Spike’s. “Spike lost one of his bull pythons a couple weeks ago…it looks like it died of starvation”, he said, poking it with a stick. I gleaned three important pieces of information from that conversation. 1) Spike owns more than one bull python. 2) It went missing several weeks ago and no one bothered to tell me. 3) The snake died from starvation right outside the door to my room. I can only assume it was on its way to eat me but died before finishing the mission. STRIKE TWO, DAMMIT.

And now we come to the third and final strike. Fast-forward two months later to the week before I move out of this house. I just got back from a run and sat down on the steps outside my door, listening to music and checking my email while I cooled down before going back in the house. Spike and all his friends gathered outside on the patio, which was a couple steps down from the tiny staircase I sat on. Seeing that they were clearly about to congregate in numbers and socialize, I stood up to go back inside, not in the mood for witnessing a virgin sacrifice. As I stepped towards my door, I stepped on something. I looked down to see a three-and-a-half-foot-long bull python squirming under my foot. I screamed and shot up the stairs. Just to make it clear, this was under my foot:

Ball_python_lucy

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I am here to consume your soul”
(source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Python_regius)

I yanked out my earphones as Spike walked over to his snake and picked it up. His friends rushed over, cooing, “Is the snake okay?” as I stood at the top of the stairs experiencing full-body shakes. They stood in front of my door, caressing the snake, until I screamed, “SPIKE GET YOUR SNAKE BACK INSIDE SO I CAN GO TO MY ROOM.” I never yell at my housemates, even Spike, but I can assure you the entire neighborhood heard me. When he finally took the snake, I ran inside, threw my shoe across the room because I didn’t want it touching me anymore knowing it had touched a snake, and burst into tears thinking about how if I hadn’t stood up at that moment, the snake would’ve crawled on me (please visit the previous image to fully understand my uncontrollable sobs).

The next morning, I bumped into Spike. Our conversation went as follows:

Spike: I didn’t know you were that scared of snakes.
Me: Well, it took me by surprise.
Spike: At least he doesn’t have any broken bones. He’s just freaked out.
Me: Not as freaked out as me.
Spike: No, I think it’s pretty even.
Me: I’m not going to argue with you about who was freaked out more, me or the snake.
Spike: It was my fault, I put him in danger. I did it because I thought it was just going to startle you.

And then my eyes bugged out of my head because he just admitted to releasing his snake on me ON PURPOSE to try and scare me.

Strike three and you’re out. Except in this case I’m the one out because there was no way I was staying in that house another minute. Goodbye, Blue House. It’s been…well, it’s never been boring. I can give you that.

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