Amy won a radio contest which gets us in as VIPs at The South Sound Garage’s grand opening in Tacoma tonight. Considering that one of the bands playing tonight has a name that references fisting, it’s sure to be a classy, classy evening.

Still, it’s not often that either one of us are treated like VIPs, so I’m guessing that being a VIP at a shithole is better than sitting at home doing nothing. If I remember to charge my camera battery, I’ll try to get some pictures of our moment in the sun…er, dark bar. I can definitely feel my freak magnet charging in anticipiation.

Yesterday, I realized I’d gotten the VIP treatment from some scumbag who took it upon himself to break into my mailbox. Note to scumbag: There’s nothing good in there. Unless you want a copy of Entertainment Weekly and REALLY like those coupons that come on the back of the ‘Have you seen this child’ bulletins (aka ‘This child is already in someone’s fuck cellar’ announcements), there’s nothing you could possibly want in there. I don’t recieve bank statements in the mail. Amy doesn’t even have a bank account. And if you’re breaking into my mailbox because you want to pay my utility bills, I will happily share the amounts and dates they need to be paid by without you even making the EFFORT of taking out the hammer. Really!

I’ve been dressing up when I go out lately; call it a social experiment. I’m sure the lady who goes from bar to bar selling flowers is thrilled with this experiment; from what I hear she is now looking at some beachfront retirement property due to the recent spike in sales. My advice to her is to hold off: This, like all personal improvement efforts, will come to a halt sometime between now and…oh, a week from now.

But the STORIES. THE STORIES.

Three weeks ago, amazoni brought a friend with her to comedy. This person did not say a word to me all night. Nada. Zip. Zilch. The next day, amazoni sent me a message on myspace which was the equivalent of “OMG MY FRIEND LIKES YOU DO YOU LIKE HIM OMG?” You may recall its junior high ancestor, the feverishly passed note around a clutch of giggling girls, festooned with i’s dotted with hearts. What else was there to do but to use my extra special glitter pen and carefully, in large bubble letters, write back “<3 <3 WOW OMG OMG HE DIDN’T SAY A WORD TO ME I’M IN LUUUUUURVE <3 <3”

If you’re already so intimidated by me that you can’t even muster up a “Hello, I’m ____”, I am the last person you want to get involved with. I will DESTROY YOU. Not because I’m a terrible person, but I am forthright and assertive. STAY AWAY I WILL DESTROY YOU.

Two point five weeks ago, I went out and ended up going back to a friend’s house after last call. By four in the morning, I decided to crash on the couch rather than risk the long drive home. I woke up in the morning to find one of my friend’s roommates sitting on the opposite couch, watching me sleep. I tried to brush it off, and we started chit-chatting; he’s alternately complimenting me on my attire and asking me about my background as he, quote “has known me for, like, a year, and still doesn’t know anything about me.” Not five minutes later, he composes the world’s largest, saddest puppy face and says “Oh you are such a good person it hurts me to know that bad things have been happening to you it hurts me DEEP INSIDE”.

…Aaaaaand look at the time; is it 9am already? I’VE GOTTA GO. You just said you don’t know anything about me! You don’t know if I’m a good person, all you know is that I am wearing a shirt that shows off my awesome boobs. If you want to feel pain deep down in your loins for someone you don’t know, feel it for the starving children of third world nations. I do not want your I AM SO LONELY PLEASE TOUCH ME WITH YOUR AWESOME BOOBS sort of pitiful desperation.

Over the course of the last two weeks, someone has been attempting to woo me in an increasingly uncomfortable way. At first, it seemed all right; vaguely borderline-normal, even. It has quickly become apparent to me that he is a Toucher. A Toucher is one of those people who punctuates everything he says with–you guessed it–touching. Pats on the arm, grabbing at hands, touching my hair as he walks by…A Toucher knows nothing about the Personal Space Bubble. A Toucher is as bad or worse than a Close Stander because they’re not only close enough to penetrate the Personal Space Bubble, causing discomfort and the need to explain that the pockets on your pants are for personal use only, but they are actually laying hands on you. Allow me to clarify: If I am friends with you, the Personal Space Bubble ceases to be an issue. I don’t have a problem with hello/goodbye hugs or anything of that nature so long as we are friends. Uninvited touching freaks me the hell out. At one point, this Toucher decided it would be a good idea to get my attention by poking me in the stomach. This is never a good way to get a positive response from me. It is, however, a great way to make me grit my teeth and ask if you think I’m going to ‘hee hee’ like the Pillsbury Fucking Doughboy. The response “Oh, no, it wasn’t about that, I was just looking for an excuse to touch you” will not endear you to me further.

A week ago, my friends and I were laughing and talking before/during/after comedy. I noticed a guy sitting by himself at the bar staring at me. A little while later, he disappears. My friends and I meander outside, make some more jokes, and make our ways to our separate vehicles. As I was getting into my car, I was startled to look up and see the loner at the bar sitting in his van, waiting for me. I quickly hopped into my car, and he leaned his head out the window and gestured at me. Seeing that he had no candy on his person, I rolled down my window a crack and asked him what he needed. His repsonse. “I like you. You should come home with me.”

How often do you think that line works? I’d venture to guess ‘not very’. Here’s a guy who couldn’t introduce himself, was intimidated by my group of friends, but was bold enough to insinuate he’d like to stick his penis inside of me. How charming! Waiting out in a van in the shadows adds a creep factor of plus ten. “sorry, no!” I called out, and booked it onto the highway as fast as the 3 mentally challenged squirrels who run on wheels to power my car could take me.

This week, I knew I had a winner on my hands when he started using ‘we’ in sentences before he even knew my name. Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson! Take note, ladies: Anyone who starts talking immediately in future tense about the two of you together is attempting to manipulate you. The same thing applies if he keeps saying your name during the course of the conversation. “What I’m trying to say, ______, is…” “Could you believe that he said that, ______?” and so on and so forth. This is done to manipulate your brain into thinking that this person is trustworthy. Sleazy car salesmen do the exact same thing. This winner said he’d like to take me out for dinner the next day at 8, and then tried to come home with me. I turned him down, and even though I’d already pegged him as a sleazebag in my brain, I showed up at 8 regardless. Sometimes I like to pretend that the more cynical thoughts running through my head aren’t always correct. Score one for the cynics– Mr. We We Wiiiiiiiiii didn’t show. Although he had the audacity to send me a text message later, asking how my comedy show went. “Great…now fuck off.”

So what have we learned here? 1. If you don’t have the balls to try, you’re never going to win. 2. Acting like you are still in junior high when you are in your late twenties/early thirties is so unattractive it immediately turns vaginas (vaginae?) into sand dunes. 3. Pretend sympathy while staring at boobs gets you nowhere. 4. Pretend sympathy at all gets you nowhere. 5. You can look but don’t touch unless expressly permitted. 6. Just because you see my friends touching me, do not assume you are my friend and therefore allowed to touch me. I don’t know you. When in doubt, refer to #5. 7. Waiting in the parking lot for someone is fucking creepy. 8. Waiting in the parking lot for someone in a van is even creepier. 9. The phrase “I like you, you should come home with me” is a very, very bad pick-up line. 10. If you ask me on a date, you’d best show up or have a great excuse. I am not a ‘three strikes’ kind of girl.

For all that, I’m not a tough nut to crack. I’m not a mega-bitch. I’m just…very selective.