My First Encounter..

You haunt me. I can't seem to get you out of my mind. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you, crave you. I often think about the first day we met. Do you remember?

It was a warm summer evening; a nearby fan gently kissed my ears with its soft hum. I pulled my hair out of its tousled bun and bit my lip out of curiosity. Will I meet you tonight? A quivering giggle escaped my lips. Tonight is the night.

I took my time getting ready. I didn't want to rush,  I slowly brushed my hand across my hanging clothes in wonder. What would you want to see me in? What would make this real? I chose a forest green form fitting shirt with my favorite skinny jeans. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I could feel you. I know you are near. I gently sprayed my perfume on my neck. The smell of fresh anticipation filled the room, I'm ready. Leaning into a mirror to apply a rose tinted gloss; my senses are overwhelmed by cherry, sweet decadent cherry. The vibrating pulse of my phone sends chills down my spine. It's time.

I rush to the door, and before I leave I stop and look at the living room. My life will forever change tonight. I studied the paintings on the wall and how haphazardly a crocheted blanket hung over a love seat. My eyes skimmed the coffee table; they were met by a neatly set candle and photo book. Can I have you there? My eyes begin to widen and burn with desire, the grin on my face is unrecognizable and the knots in my stomach began to twist. I need you.

The air felt warm and delicious on my skin as I rolled down the window of my car. I've never felt so alive, driving through the hustle and bustle of the city streets, with my hand gently waving through the breeze. The sounds of sultry percussion flood my ears, the aggressive beats of the drum, feels animalistic. I'm energized.

The sights and sounds seem so familiar, I'm getting close. My heart starts to take on the animalistic drumming and a blanket of heat rushes over my body. I can see you. I park my car and fumble as I take the keys out of the ignition. One last look in the mirror. "You can do this"

I open the door, I'm greeted by a jingle of bells as the door shuts behind me. I nervously clench my hands together, the beads of sweat caress my skin, I may come undone with excitement. The cool metal chair chills my skin as I sit, all while my senses are dancing with the sensual smells. And then it happened.

"Are you Courtney?" he said. I sheepishly looked up at him and said "Hi, yes I'm Courtney." He smiled an approving smile. My heart jumped. This is happening, it's all I ever wanted and it's happening right now!

"Okay, 5 rolled tacos with extra sour cream? Did you want a soda?" he asked while preparing my order.
 Trying to muffle my excitement I said "No, just the tacos, thank you."

I needed you, I couldn't wait to get home. I had to have you right then and there. I devoured you one by one in the Roberto's Taco Shop parking lot. Napkins were not necessary, I didn't want to stop. The taste of fried tortilla and cheese consumed me. You are a god. I love you 5 rolled tacos. I love you endlessly. You make me a better woman, I love who I am when I'm with you.

I forever miss you.

Breaking up is hard to do

Dear Donald Trump,

       Wow, how did we get here? It's been an interesting year hasn't it? We have learned so much about each other. Actually you don't know shit about me.. it's just been you, you, you this entire time. But I digress.. I am at a stage in my life where I'm looking seriously and systematically for someone I can share my life with. You seem like a nice person to 35-45% of Americans, but I just don't see it. Or get it. I know this letter might come to you as a shock, because what woman on earth would want to break up with You, The Donald, The Trump! The Pussy Grabber!? I know, I'm a silly silly woman. I just can't do this anymore DT, can I call you that? Is that okay? I want you to be very happy. It's very important to me.

       We are just on different paths. I want equal pay and the freedom to make decisions concerning my own body. You want to cheat people out of hard earned money and you also like to grab pussies. Like a lot. What's with that DT? Do you think your money and status has power over vaginas? Do you think a woman's genitalia will automatically recognize your tiny hands and be okay with a good ol' fake billionaire gropage? Sadly, my love, that is not the case. I know you don't believe me, but you have to trust me on this one. Oh and darling, you're not much of a looker yourself. Every time I hear your voice or see your glowing orange face I get chills.. chills of the nausea nature. I want to puke, I want to puke my brains out. You're gross. Ridiculously gross, and did you ever learn how to blow your nose? Seriously the sniffing has to stop! How can I trust a man who can't blow his nose? This is serious Donald.. believe me.

       I'm choosing to walk away from this relationship with my head held high. You have done nothing for me emotionally, physically, or sexually. Financially all you have offered was to make you and your "good friends" (we know they don't exist.. we know.) richer. I know you made a huuuge donation to your own lawyers. That doesn't count, nope, not even a little bit. Have you noticed that all of your buddies are dropping like flies? No one wants to be around you, and not because you are inventive and a genius force to be reckoned with. People can't stand you because you are an uneducated racist who uses and abuses women and threatens war like it's a conversation at brunch. And nobody fucks with brunch.. Nobody!


      We've had some good times though. Remember when you said all Mexicans were rapists? We laughed and laughed because you were just deflecting your own self onto another race. Remember honey? You're the rapist. Oh and I will never forget when you called Alicia Machado 'Miss Piggy' and continued to embarrass her for gaining weight. Sugar-pie Honey-bunch you are fat as fuck. Most doctors in America would categorize you as being obese. You do not have room (in your pants) to talk. That reminds me my love, you keep blaming your words of sexual assault on women as "Locker room talk" Now we all know you have never been in a locker room.. your Jabba the Hutt physique says otherwise. Unless you were talking about the locker room with the naked TEEN beauty queens you barged in on regularly, because you can. If that's what you were talking about, then I apologize.. you have definitely been in a locker room.


      It's not you.. it's you. I cannot continue this union anymore and I hope you can respect that. I expect to be publicly embarrassed and my looks will be the reason of our ultimate demise. "I mean look at her.." That's just you, it's who you are. I would hope you can take this time to reflect and really understand my words.. maybe do some yoga? Maybe even a pottery class will help you understand what a complete douchebag you are. I hope you find your center Donald. I really do.


Kisses,

Courtney Marie

     

"Everything is fine.. thanks!"

 Hashtag Adulting.


You know the feeling, when you are trying on a pair of skinny jeans in a Forever 21 dressing room? You somehow, by the grace of god, get them all the way on without pulling a muscle. Your Michigan (muffin top) is bursting at the seams and you are losing circulation in your thighs. You say "These will do" as you look how amazing your ass looks squeezed into sweatshop made material. You start to take off the toddler sized jeans, while a heat of panic flows over your body. You can't get them off! They are holding your thighs hostage and never letting go. I don't even think Liam Neeson and his particular set of skills can help you now. Shit! What do I do? I can't waddle out to the 18 year old dressing room attendant and ask her for help. What is she going to do? Snapchat my misfortune and thank god she has a thigh gap? I'm crying at this point, thankfully Justin Bieber's "Sorry" is blasting so the nearby tweens can't hear my sobs. Sobs of desperation and sobs of "What the fuck am I doing here?" You are 30 years old Courtney! What are you trying to prove? At this point you are starting to sweat and every movement you make, like a boa constrictor, the jeans are getting tighter and tighter.

--Knock Knock-- "How's everything going in there?"
Maybe if I hold my breath, she'll go away! "Everything is fine.. thanks."

Is this how I'm going to die? Will my life end here? In this super loud, gum on the wall, terrible lighting, cell of a dressing room? "Courtney lost her life today while fighting a metaphorical pair of jeans in a local shopping mall, she didn't die in vain though.. her ass did look banging."

I say NAY! This is not how it ends! Not today! Not on Rex Manning day! No one in the store understood that reference.. because they are children.
I did what any self respecting woman would do. I pulled the Satan's mistress's pants up, ripped off the tag, and paid for them. I walked out of the store with absolute confidence and loss of oxygen. Pulled the life ruining jeans down to my thighs as I got into the car.. Super happy I chose to wear sassy black panties.. as opposed to period granny ones. Ya know, just in case I get pulled over by a hot cop.. and he falls in love with me and puts the siren on at our wedding. I finally made it to the privacy of my own home and I cut those fuckers off. Never again will I forget who I am.

Never again.