Not The Girl You Bring Home To Mom
A guy once told me not to have any regrets and I specifically remember saying something along the lines of, “I would say the same to you but you’ve already met me.” Some people are just the kinds of people you know you’re going to regret but you get involved with anyway. More and more I think I’m becoming one of those people.
On the real, I’m not the kind of girl you’d bring home to mom. I’m not even the kind of girl you’d bring to church or the movies or really, anywhere public for that matter. I’ve got a terrible reputation for being completely inappropriate (just ask the guy who shot me one pretty serious death stare at the midnight showing of Harry Potter when I couldn’t stop giggling after Dobby died) and wildly insensitive. I’m not the sweet girl next door who loves picking daisies and baking things from scratch. I’m the girl in a hurry because she forgot she had to make a valid contribution to the party (other than herself, of course) and now is sitting in her car outside, scraping icing off of store-bought cupcakes and swiping on icing from a tub so the cupcakes appear to be homemade. (Sidenote: When doing this, always make sure to designate a place for the store’s icing you scraped off the cupcakes, unless you particularly enjoy having ants infiltrate and establish residence in your vehicle.) I’m the girl who thinks it’s okay to use sexual innuendo when it’s clearly not…like in the waiting area at the doctor’s office…with her mom. In short, if Oprah wouldn’t enjoy my company, your mother probably wouldn’t either. (It’s okay, sometimes my mother doesn’t even enjoy my company. I kid, I kid, she thinks my overactive imagination is totally healthy and normal and she hopes that someday I put it to good use, to which I tell her I already am, with my blog, and she always laughs and says, “Ohhhh yes, ah yes, that, I always forget you have one of those.” Thanks mom.)
Some people you know you’re going to regret getting involved with but you do it anyway. Whether they’re mysterious (read: shady) or different (read: an asshole who finds new ways to treat you like shit) or charismatic (read: manipulative); something draws you in against your better judgment. We play the silly little games, cue the coy little winks and wander down the beaten path, pioneered by the ones who told us to have no fear and live each day as if we were dying; problem is not every day is a day that we die. In fact it’s the realizing that you didn’t die the next day that makes you regret at all because when it comes to waking up next to a passed-out douchebag in an Affliction tee with a hangover from too much tequila and too many bad choices, it’s easier to wish you had died instead.
Somethings you just regret; like blonde highlights against your Indian skin tone and falling for the life of the party guy and drunk HeyTells from the semi-attractive, not-so-funny guy in your journalism lab who you’re now obligated to converse with…in real life…sober. Somethings take longer to realize you’ll regret and in this single life, I’ve given you fair warning bro, look at me, I’m not the kind of girl you bring home to mom. Do yourself (and your mom) a favor and just get her another fern instead because sooner or later, the kid-tested, mother-approved version of me is going to sink to oblivion when I’m bound to, at any point in time, show my true colors. Because if my overwhelming amount of questionable Facebook pictures aren’t enough to ward her off, my penchant for cursing Mel Gibson-esque rants at my hangnails and telling people that I respect them for completely non-respectable things (like knowing all the words to “Party in the USA” but not to the actual national anthem) sure will.
So for your mother’s sake, don’t do it!