Regrets, I Have So Few

I realize now that, not only am I not much of a rebel, I don’t even have a long list of bad things to regret.

  • I once made a guy get out of my car in the middle of nowhere and acted like I was going to drive off without him, which is pretty bad, but in my defense, the week before he said he’d teach me how to drive stick if I gave him a handjob and I still can’t work a manual transmission, so fuck him. I let him back in the car eventually.
  • I told the Man from GM that one of our mutual acquaintances was so bad in bed that he’d turned the other girl he was seeing–when he claimed to be seeing only me–gay, because I knew the Man from GM would go back and blab it all over his small home town and that his friends would tease him about it. She actually didn’t come out of the closet until she’d worked her way through a couple of other guys I knew, but why let a minor detail like that stop me?
  • I didn’t speak to my college roommate for six years because she fucked a guy I liked and didn’t have the guts to tell me.
  • Oh, and I got this darling sparkly-stubbled man arrested. Apparently just because I think it’s a good idea to drag race down Center Street from Illinois State to Illinois Wesleyan doesn’t mean the Normal cops agree.
  • And the Shill once had to yell at me “Pull your pants up and get in the car” when I was drunkenly showing one of her friends–and inadvertently everyone who was looking out the patio door–how much I was enjoying getting to know him.
  • Okay, Miss J. and I did whip out the Bible and start reading all the passages about the ills of drinking while our other roommate (who is extremely religious) threw up in her trash can.
  • And I tried to put a curse on our old landlord.
  • And I accidentally had an affair with an amateur professional wrestler. But I don’t think that counts, because I broke it off with him as soon as I discovered he was married.
  • And I’m lying to the Butcher about our household expenses–not by much, I swear–so that I can have a little money to go out with.
  • And I haven’t told my parents I’m not Christian. I let them think I don’t go to church as some kind of noble protest against the ways the Methodist church has done my dad wrong.

But that’s it. So, you can see that my dreams of being a bad-ass are pretty far-fetched.

21 thoughts on “Regrets, I Have So Few

  1. Everyone knows that a handjob is required rehearsal for proper shift-stick handling. He was only trying to teach you the proper technique.

    Uh . . . I can teach you. . .

  2. J.

    We’ve been out, for drinks at least. That’s really all there is to me. But what the fuck? You bring the liquor, I’ll bring the entertaining stories.

  3. b,

    Luckily, I’m much more interesting and attractive when I’m shitfaced drunk.

    (I did leave suggest to Roboto that he plan another fabulous blogger party to celebrate his return.)

    So I’m bringing the liquor? Does this mean I’m coming over?


  4. Considering that “coming over” means coming to the office, where I’m stuck until the Butcher gets off work… Well, I have to say, it’s considerably tempting to sit around the office getting drunk.

    Does the coolness of getting shit-faced at the office outweigh the lameness of being stuck at the office until 7:30 on a Friday night?

    That I don’t know.

  5. Had I a car of my own, I’d come get you. But alas, my husband has taken the car to go ride his bike somewhere.


    I know.

    It isn’t fair, is it?

  6. Well okay then. We’ll do our thing withoutchya.

    There will be bikers there.

    But I guess not your kind…

  7. badass, you are not. in order to be a badass, you must not regret a damn thing. like me. i’m proud of all my evil deeds. so proud, i’m not using caps in this entire comment.

  8. Holy Fucking tap-dancing Christ, will you people get a car already. Judas Priest, you’re adults, right? You’re not still a student in college, are you? Get a fucking car, for fuck’s sake. God Damn, be a fucking grown up.

  9. I have one car. It’s paid-for.

    I don’t need a second one so badly that I’d go into debt for it.

    ‘Sides which, my husband has a large penis and we don’t need any substitutions. So we’re largely satisfied with one vehicle to get us places.

    Also, any time we’ve had more than one car, I’ve wrecked the second one. Damn women drivers.

  10. Damn it, Kat. I was going to go the whole “Well, Boy Scout, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you come up here and give me a ride? (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge)” route, but now that your husband’s penis has been whipped out, the flirty banter seems positively old-fashioned.

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