(For the record, I’ve decided to stop apologizing to my mother for these articles. She already knows that she can’t control me. Love you, Mom.)
Like Miley Cyrus said, maybe I just can’t be tamed.
It started on a Thursday, when I decided that I was going to download Bumble. For those of you not into the online dating scene, it’s like Tinder on crack. I pretty sure they have to reach some sort of quota of good-looking humans to stay in business.
If my guess is right, this company is THRIVING. Out of all of the dudes I matched with, I only received one unwarranted dick pic(This was a first for me).
In the last five days, I have probably spent at LEAST 20 hours total sucked into the vortex of Bumble. Really, my fingers need a massage from all of the swiping. Anyone up for the job?
The best part was that my roommate and I did this together, introducing our bumble bees to each other and helping each other to come up with witty sh*t to say to our hot, internet matches.
This was immensely entertaining considering that I also spent two days/nights drunk on Vodka. Vodka helped me through Friday, when some buttplug of a human dumped an entire beer on my friend’s head. She then proceeded to punch him and scream something along the lines of “I’m going to mother f*cking kill you, you piece of sh*t.” I can’t quite remember the details. Vodka helped me through Saturday, when my hot water heater stopped working and I had to bathe myself with my dog’s deodorizing bath wipes. Most of all, Vodka helped me through Sunday, when I decided that getting drunk on my favorite day of the week was more important than getting anything substantial accomplished. So maybe it was three days, if leftover vodka counts.
I shouldn’t lie to you. I like sex with strangers. I like figuring out their bodies. I like watching them try to figure out mine. Sometimes, these experiences can be traumatizing, like the one time my Tinder date threw up in my bed. But sometimes, they are f*cking fantastic.
I know, I know, “this poor generation and their hookup culture.” Trust me when I say I used to think the same thing. I was a church-going, Nicholas Sparks-loving, hopeless romantic-type for a long time. I still like the idea of it all, but now I’m also inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey.
Society ruined me, folks. Now, I just play the game. It’s a little something Charles Darwin called “survival of the fittest.” And I’m not tryna’ die.
I like excitement. I like adventure. And if I can’t find that in one person, I’m 100% going to find it multiple people. At least for now. I’m not ashamed. I’m not hesitant. I’m really just enjoying the ride(figuratively and literally speaking). I like it when people who don’t know me call me beautiful. I couldn’t even get my last boyfriend to do that.
There are far worse things in life than people judging me and using words like “slutty” or “promiscuous” to describe my behavior. I’m sorry that I have a vagina that wants to be used. Please, sue me.
I’d be more hurt if someone made a comment against the quality of my character or intelligence, because that is something that I find substantially more important than the number of tongues I’ve had down my throat. I’m certainly not going to feel badly about the decisions I make regarding my own body, especially if it isn’t hurting other people.
Just don’t act so innocent, friends. I know you’ve all thought about this before. Or done it. Or wanted to do it. Or maybe you’re just too boring to do it, so if that’s the case, I’m sorry for that too.
I say you should just buzz your little wings and risk getting stung.
And when it doesn’t work for you anymore, then stop.
It’s really quite simple to be a bee.