Valentine's clearance candy counts as lunch, right?

Is there anybody in this entire world that likes the purple candy hearts in the boxes of Heartlines Conversation Hearts? You see, personally, I like the green, pink, and white ones, and I just pick through all the other ones that are gross and throw them away. Apparently nobody else has a love for compressed citric acid and powdered sugar like mine. I love it when I go to the store to buy my off brand Clorox wipes and Valentine's candy is fifty percent off. Twenty seven packages of Heartlines for only seventy six cents? Why yes, I would like to chew myself into a diabetic coma. But anyway, this isn't what today's ramblings are about. Today's ramblings are about the sad excuse for Valentine's Day that stumbled upon my bitter feelings for the holiday. Let me clarify why. You see, Christian was a gift buyer. He bought me shiny, expensive, sparkly things. I got rings and necklaces and bracelets and diamond studs. Chet. Not a gift buyer. In fact, if his Audi hadn't cost him so many loans he couldn't see past the paperwork, I don't think he'd even indulge me just because. He's a tight ass. While Christian's new FIANCE, yes, fiance, with a big ass, diamondy, sparkly ring is posting twitpics of her left hand, I'm busy plucking dead rose petals off my table as they fall. I hate roses.
So the night started out in a panic. The tickets to the concert I bought Chet were gone. I couldn't find them, or the very expensive lingerie that was in the bag along with them. To this day I can't find them. My dress wouldn't iron and my hair was limp, plus my favorite lipstick was gone. Muttering profanities under my breath while I shoved my feet into my Nina's and grabbed my dress coat, I yanked the cigars I purchased for Chet from my cabinet and ran out the door. We were going to be late to dinner, I forgot my ID, and I didn't want to go see the stupid chick flick our friends wanted to go see for Valentine's Day.
So I wheeled my car into Chet's lot just as my gas light turned on. Awesome. He met me outside to ask if I'd drive. Sure, Chet, I will drive to dinner, the traditional man job. So he drug me inside to meet our friends and a table full of flowers and cookies. Peanut butter blossom cookies and roses.
Let me tell you something about me. I hate peanut butter cookies, which Chet should know, and roses remind me of my dead aunt. I hate both of those things. But here is the kicker....
In the middle of the flowers was a piece of cardboard. "What's that for?" I asked cautiously.
"It's so you guys can split the flowers!" I'm not sure if my jaw or my heart dropped. I was pissed.
"Thanks. We're going to be late, let's go."
We get to the restaurant and sit down. All I really want is a real drink, not a water with lemon like I'm usually forced to drink. The waitress stepped up to our table. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Can I get a Sprite?" Chet's eyes burnt a hole through my forehead. "Actually, water. Extra lemons. Thanks."
I was exasperated. After struggling through a disgusting dinner at a restaurant I absolutely abhor, we made our way into the theater to watch a movie of genres that I also abhor. The movie sucked.
All I wanted was a damn cup of ice cream to numb the pissed off at the awful date that had been half-assed put together along with my HALF boquet of flowers. This, too, was a fight.
"Can we go to Graters?"
"For what? I made you cookies."
"Yeah, but I just want ice cream."
"Do you really need it?"
"Well it's just across the street and it is my car and my gas. And I'm hungry."
"We just ate."
"If that's what you want to call it."
"What's your problem?"
....At the phrase what's your problem, every cell in my body lysed. My heart started thumping and my hands started shaking.
My problem is that we went on a date to a restaurant I hate, we went to a movie I didn't want to see, I'm starving, I want a goddamn cup of ice cream, my feet hurt, I got half a boquet of flowers and you made me literally the only desert on the face of the earth that I absolutely hate. 
"Ice cream. NOW."
I won, ultimately, but not until I promised to pay for my own. :|
In accordance with the incredibly shitty night, something else had to go wrong.
I pulled out my carefully chosen gift for Chet. Three very very expensive cigars, hand rolled right in front of me.
"Oh. Cigars."
"You love to smoke a cigar," I remembered that he had a coat that smelled delicious  from the cigars he smoked when I first met him.
"No, not really. I don't even smoke. Why would you get me these?"
"You're welcome."
Sex was not had that night.
Or any night again, EVER.

He got into law school... and his daddy bought him a Beamer...

There's a song by some punky, not of my style band that says "girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money." that isn't entirely wrong. Girls like boys, this is certain, but girls also like cars and money. As righteous as someone may be, she'd rather ride in a Lexus than in a rust bucket. This is a general rule of humanity, people like nice things. Miranda really likes nice things.
I met Chet six years ago, in the parking lot behind the Rite-Aid in town. If you just sneered and thought it was because I was a destitute whore who had just broken a heel, you are mistaken. My little Honda had yet another flat tire, because the little bitch who thought my boyfriend at the time, Christian, was attractive, had a fetish for putting tacks behind my tires. Sometimes, I caught it, but this time, I was in too much of a hurry to worry about checking for roofing nails. The string of words coming out of my mouth wasn't lady like, to say the least. In a slutty Halloween nurse costume, with fluffy panty covers sticking out and a cheap stethoscope I swiped from my niece's toy box dangling from my pocket, I kicked the flat tire and prayed that I would get a chance to shove a tack in a very unholy place of that little bitch. I'm sure I probably looked defeated, because a very handsome man who introduced himself as "just Chet" pulled up in a beautiful Audi, black, tinted windows, white leather interior and not a female sunglasses case in sight.
"Need some help?"
"This bitch keeps tack-raping my tires. I don't even have a spare with me."
Long story short, he drove me to Christian's, but not before dropping his number into my purse. Christian was pissed a guy picked me up but once I explained that bitch was doing the tack thing again, his anger faded into annoyance at her odd obsession.
But I couldn't get Chet out of my mind. When Christian dumped me three months later, I hit the ground running and called Audi man up immediately.
I just am a sucker for nice cars, that's my problem. Christian's '98 Blazer with holes beginning to rust through the floor boards just wasn't for me.
So now I can bring you to the story I intended to tell. Today, I was making pancakes and ranting my latest rant about Chet at Josh. (Josh the goldfish.) I don't even like pancakes, but I just wanted some carbs. My phone rang, and in ten seconds, I flipped the skillet with freshly poured batter over, dropped a scalding hot spatula on my left foot, damn near knocked Josh off his table, and spilled the entire bowl of batter on my freshly mopped floor. I wasn't thrilled when I answered the phone, seeing it was a girl I graduated with that has been my best friend for twelve years.
"This better be really good, Lee. You should see the mess in my kitchen, I was making pancakes and--"
"You don't even like pancakes."
"Well I wanted carbs and my mom bought them for me... Anyway, so I flipped--"
"Just shut up, I have big things to tell you. Remember how after you met Chet all you could talk about was how hot he looked driving that new car?"
"Mhmm, before I realized he had 70 grand worth of loans on it,"
"I saw Christian today.."
"And his foot was sticking through the rust hole in the bottom of that smelly Blazer?? God I can't stand him."
"He got into Yale. And his dad bought him a brand new car."
"Yeah, I made the dean's list and Dad bought me a new car, so?"
"Your dad bought you another Honda. His daddy bought him a Beamer."
My entire body went numb. That bastard told me he'd have one one day, and I just laughed at him.
"Huh?"
"Yeah. Brand new. Candy apple red, sun roof, black leather... and get this," I knew what she was about to say. "I was window creeping, and I saw a pair of COACH sunglasses in the front seat with a matching case. Classic print, new frame, 145 for the pair and 260 for the case. Gold clasps."
If there was one thing that Lee knew, it was her luxury brands.
Damnit, Chet. Your Audi drew me in, your penis hooked me, and your loans sunk me.
Sonofabitch.

Three Steps: Pull, Unlace, Remove.

Today, my IWANTTOHURTYOUCHET meter is at an all-time high on the annoyance scale. Why is that? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because of his general rudeness and lack of compassion. Perhaps it is because sex is nauseating because it's about the only thing to keep him from pawing me at night when FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I just wanted to go to sleep! Or it's possible that his Doc Martins don't know how to make it into my shoe closet and INSTEAD, he planted them DIRECTLY on my brand-new, tags still on it couch. Directly on it with snow on his feet. After he tracked mud across my freshly shampooed carpet that took me six hours to complete. (The room is 14x10, you do the math.) I'm not sure if I want to hit him with the unwashed frying pan my roommate so COURTEOUSLY left lay on the stove top or if I want to smother him with the foot-track laden pillows. Even after this conversation:
"Hey, take your boots off!"
"Why?"
(Please add a hefty dose of incredibly pissed off Miranda.) "Because you have mud and snow all over them. That's why. I don't want that in my house."
"It's just carpet."
For anyone who doesn't know my family and the way we work, here it goes. You see, there are only two rules in my home. Don't break anything and take your shoes off. THAT'S IT. You can eat anywhere, sans the bedroom mainly because that's gross, you can drink anywhere, you can piss with the door open if you want for all I care. But SHOES COME OFF. Why should you take shoes off when you are in the house? Because my three year old niece and two year old nephew play on that carpet when their mommies come to have Bailey's and coffee with me. Because I stretch out on the floor with a pillow whenever I feel the desire. Because you probably stepped in a prostitute's gum while walking across campus and then rubbed it off in unidentified fecal matter. Because I am a germ freak and a clean-o-phobe. Because my poor forty dollar sweeper simply cannot handle my demanding sweeping schedule. Because you can't bleach beige carpet. Because believe it or not, your shoes are so dirty that I would rather lick my front doorknob because I know that at least it gets Cloroxed every third or fourth day than touch your shoes.
My home runs in an impeccably clean manner. The countertops and floors get bleached, the carpet gets swept, the rugs get shaken, the bathroom gets disinfected from top to bottom. I have absolutely not a single problem in this WORLD eating something that I just dropped on my floor a second ago. But when you and your dirtily expensive Docs come in and tromp all over my pristine environment, I'm not going to be happy. All of this went through my head in about 12 seconds before I had the chance to grit my teeth and say, bitchily of course, "Take your shoes off, or I will beat you with an egg skillet."
Of course, my docile manner forced Chet to just chuckle at me and leave his damn boots on.
From now on, I am a shoe freak. When you open my front door, I will scream, "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES."
Chet's a first time offender here on my happy little cul-de-sac so far... but next time,
it's an egg skillet to the temporal lobe.

Really... She works at Hooter's.

Today, my lame life has his an all time lame. I'm sitting alone in my home listening to my microscopic television blast out some Big Bang Theory and eating my sorrows away in Pringles calories, stewing over New Year's. Let me set the scene for you... our friends were here from out of town to enjoy the New Year party being held a few blocks over. Ever heard that Ke$ha song that goes, "gotta water bottle full of whiskey in my handbag..."? Fuck the water bottle. I had the whole damn Crown bottle in my bag, with every intention of showing the boys what it meant to be a real lady. Also known as getting so wasted I call my older disapproving very proper businessman brother who lectures me about the dangers of alcohol poisoning bawling about how much I miss him and want him to move home from Minnesota. You see, Daddy never drinks anything but Crown. Only the best, top shelf, purple-bag liquor. I must have gotten his love of expensive heat, because I can't count the number of shots that I did but I can tell you that the friend taking them with me was so wasted he had to stop on the way home. Anyway, so Crown in bag, I was ready to go. Until I got a "firm talking to" about the people that I wasn't allowed to talk to or communicate with at this party. Whatever, I just brushed it off. So it WAS, after all, NYE, and I was wearing my hooker boots because that is the only time that is socially acceptable.
I didn't make it out the door without smearing my eyeliner and chucking my heels at the wall.
That aside, I wasn't going to let my night be ruined. Amongst the bragging of the night, our friend Alan was waving a piece of a napkin in front of my face. "See this? Katherine. Waitress. Hooter's. Gave us her number!"
The word "us" instantly threw me for a loop.
"Who is 'us'?" I asked timidly. Moreso pissed off, less so timid. "Well," I heard that tone in Chet's voice. "I just helped a little."
Helped a little? As soon as he was out the door his friends were squealing like pigs. He didn't just help a little, he hit on her to the point of inviting her out. Then, Alan charmed her with a little bit of his really bad jokes and she handed the number to him, but NOT until Chet had given her his number. When confronted, "It was just a waitress."
NOT OKAY.
So I got over it, reminding myself of the delicious Crown waiting for me inside of that Coach bag. Until I stepped onto the patio.
"Just show me your tits, come on! I want to see them!" To a different girl.
Do you know that feeling when your stomach drops out of your body and just makes you want to die? I experienced that feeling in the worst way I ever have. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," was a quick reply. Even still just typing about it makes me nauseous. He keeps telling me that it's the same as looking at porn or at a magazine, and it's not okay. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. It's nawing at me.
But come on.
Two girls, one night...
for the love of God, she works at Hooter's.