What Happens In Vegas Should Always, ALWAYS Stay In Vegas: Part The Second

I know, it's been a couple of weeks since I delivered the first part of this Unexpected Journey. Pretend like you give a shit. I would have posted earlier but my computer literally committed suicide and the hard drive decided to crash after less than a year. The external that Apple "provided" me with (for 100 of my hard-earned dollars) didn't work and I lost all my data, so I had to download everything all over again. I still hate you, Apple. So, so much.

At any rate, I fixed everything, and now I'm back, and ready to go. And I apologize for that mid-90's reference. I'm really old.

If you remember what happened in my last entry, good for you! Or, I'm sorry. If not, you can refer to Part the First through this handy link. Basically the story begins with me meeting a guy in Vegas, actually thinking that he might not be a complete tool, and turning out to be very, very wrong, as usual. Enjoy.

Part the Second picks up on my couch, where I was actually dumb enough to sit, on my ass, on a SATURDAY NIGHT, and wait for this asshole to show up at my apartment after his friends informed me that he would like to plead his case. I can't believe that I did this myself, so don't bother telling me what a complete idiot I was.

At least I had the good sense to exchange hate texts with Coyote Tits. My favorite was the one about how she would get her dogs to bite him repeatedly.

Look at these little faces! 

The next morning, after my roommate came home and went down a list of various detailed humiliation techniques that somehow all ended in ice cream, I realized that it was definitely time to cut this douchebag and everyone associated with him out of my life for good. At this rate, the only way that The Bug could get me to even entertain the notion of being in the same room with him (without a tire iron) would be to:

1) Purchase a private island for myself and three friends of my choosing (the lottery draw begins now);

B) Become Superman and use his powers of time travel to erase the last few months and therefore all remnants of his dumbass behavioral tactics;

SNOW LEOPARD) Learn the lost art of calligraphy, hand-write a detailed, formal letter of apology and have it delivered via adorable puppy (bonus if this letter arrives tied to a Nestle's Crunch bar);

I accept.

DD) Sit through every Ryan Gosling movie ever made and allow me to point out exactly what all the characters are doing correctly and how he himself has, in fact, managed to fuck himself over time and again. This includes stomping some dude in an elevator.

God, that's hot. Again, I question my own moral fiber.

I was also getting really irritated with the way his friends would constantly text me asking to crash at my place when they went out near my apartment, even when I wasn't with them. This was made even more obnoxious when I received another phone message from The Bug, using someone else's phone, not even acknowledging the fact that he stood me up and suggesting we meet up for sex later. In his defense, he did suggest dinner first. Probably at Chick-Fil-A or some other romantic four-star eatery with paper wine cups and vomit on the tables.

I'd had enough of this bullshit. I called the number back and demanded an explanation for the week prior, and I was informed, by another party, naturally, because The Bug is a total pussy and afraid to talk to me in person, that we don't have a "relationship."

What a complete load of fucking crap. I don't care if you're my boyfriend, my friend or my brother- if you make plans with me, I expect you to show up. And if you have to break them, there's this new invention called a phone. Here's a picture, in case you're unfamiliar:

Also, here's the definition of courtesy, since you've clearly never heard of that either:

This is where he reached the winning trifecta of having my roommate, my two best friends and my mother all detest him, which is a feat not accomplished since The Supervillain. Congratulations; that's like, the Lottery of Hate!

I really, REALLY wanted to tell this asshat to go fuck himself in person, so I told whoever was on the phone that I would speak to him if he would talk to me, himself, while sober. The reply I received?

"He says OK."

HAHAHAHAHA! Seriously, all you can do is laugh. Anyway, I haven't heard from him since, not like I would answer if he called. I canceled plans with his friends, who were pretty mad that they had lost their crash pad and parking spot, and they haven't gotten in touch with me since then, either. My girls all offered to be a bitch for me, but they're all really not worth my energy. I'd much rather focus my efforts on much more important things, like blogging, or the new season of Breaking Bad, or calling out sick to work.

YEEEEEES.

Anyway, so there's the end of that. I wish I could tell you guys that I told him straight-up to go drive off a bridge, but seeing as how I deleted his number months ago, sadly, I never got that opportunity. I will say, however, that this entire spectacle has finally inspired Tits and myself to start that dating blog that we've going back and forth on Facebook chat about for the last six months. It's in Blogger Drafts right now, so we've actually taken that first small step for (wo)mankind. Look for it really soon- I promise it will be as horrifying yet hilarious as you imagine.