I'm Just Trying To Help Y'all Out...

Okay, so I’ve done a fair share of dating in the past couple of weeks, months, years and I know some boys might read this website and I’d like to help you with the dating (Be it dating the mens or womens). I want to help all y’all, actually. Ladies and gentleman, cats and dogs and lil’ children. There’s just some shit you should not do. Please. We want to like you so much, but when you say or do stupid shit, we tell our dads and roommates and then they don’t like you which, in turn, makes it harder for us to like you.

I know when you’ve snooped around in my medicine cabinet. What are you some kind of drug fiend? I don’t have any anti-convulsants, anti-anxieties, anti-depressants, no medical marijuana. And I don’t use the term “vikes” so get the fuck out of here, crack baby. If you’d like a big ass bottle of Curve Crush from four years ago to drink yourself into oblivion, go ahead, but you should ask first before you go snooping through my things. I got shit going on in there. Don’t worry about what I do with that big ass bottle of lotion. I have brand loyalty, okay. Purposefully, I’ve rigged that arm to the door of the cabinet to jangle a certain way specifically to knock shit down and I hear you in there snooping, so stop it. As much as it is a joy to have my bathroom super close to my bedroom, it’s really annoying for when guests visit. Lots more shit to hide, I mean, clean up. Ladies and gay boys, don’t let a man go up in your bedroom while it’s fucked up. They act oblivious, but they notice everything. Ironically, the same dude that will notice I wore these shoes twice in a row is the same dude that doesn't know that Paris Hilton's hair is sometimes fake. Why do guys not know how to recognize fake hair? It's so annoying to me. HELLO! Hair today, gone the next. Don't you see?

If you drop me off at my house, please have the decency to wait until I get inside the house before you peel out. Screeching your tires and shit. I mean, I’ll be damned if you roll off and a mother fucker can’t find her keys. This shit has happened to me. And like an asshole, I sat on the front porch in a t-shirt, waiting for backup. Food coma setting in. Knees getting ashy. (No, calling him back wasn’t an option because then what? I’d have to stay at his house and ain’t nobody humping around tonight. Oh no.) You should be walking me up to the stoop like 227, but I understand the parking situation. Trust me. When you walk somebody to the front door, they think about this shit and they say good things about you to their friends. “It was like, he had manners or was raised right. He walked me to the door. Said he had a great time. Said he’d call. Girl, it was crazy.” Yes, that’s how far away we’ve gotten from chivalry. We now get excited when you do shit you ought to be doing because your mama taught you better that. I’m not going to blast you on the Internet or compromise my Christianity because my mama taught me better than that, but don’t be an asshole. Wait there. To this day, when I drop a girl friend or a dude friend off, I wait. And I give a courtesy honk if it’s not too late in a residential. This is optional.

When you see a fresh batch of the prettiest flowers on my dining room table and you didn’t get them for me, don’t ask me any questions. You don’t want to know the answer. Just assume they belong to my roommate and move on about your business. Even if they did belong to my roommate, you still don’t want to know the answer because then what? You still didn’t bring them over. And I don’t want to make my stank face. I really don’t. I can’t control it sometimes either so this is a fair warning. You could bring a bunch of wildflowers over here (for little old me?) and then you’d know the answer for yourself and we wouldn’t have these problems. As my friend G2 would say, step up your game. (If you're a dude, and you just rolled your eyes to this statement, you've got a long way to go in the Nice Guy department. I'm not saying you should have to get your other half some roses, but fuck dude, it doesn't ever hurt.)

If I’ve taken your keys away because you’re drunk, I’m trying to help you. Don’t bother me for hours about the where's and the whys of the keys. Go lie down in the living room. Take this Advil, drink this whole bottle of water and most importantly, shut the hell up. The guy downstairs is a Metro cop, so please help me help you, bitch. And don’t be calling the police talking about I kidnapped you, jackass. I don’t want any police up in here. Trust me Ned the Wino, you’re destroying my evening as well. You think I want to sit up here and listen to your drunken babble for another three or four hours while you sober up? No, I don’t. You think I want to let you stay your ass at my house only to have to get up at the ass crack in the morning so you can get your car? No, I don’t. I just want you to arrive alive. And why are you drinking that cheap ass beer anyway? What, are you at the Kenny Rogers revival tour?

Um, when a game show is on, you no longer have control of the remote. I don’t know how you got the “mote” in the first place. Never a clicker, by the way. I’m dead serious, and you’re pissing me off. If I miss any of the questions, I’m doomed because Lord knows I don’t know shit about the second round of questions. Put it on channel 4 and don’t be all surprised when I display my disappointment in you. It’s my one half hour with the television where I need silence. You can talk through Ugly Betty or Grey’s Anatomy all day because I’ll catch it again. But my game shows!? Do you want to break up? What’s this about? And I’m not uncool about shit. You can watch The Simpsons all day. Two episodes back to back. I don’t give a fuck. You can watch that Cinemax late at night where they pretend to hump even. I don’t care. Just don’t mess with my game shows! You could make it easier on yourself if you just come over after 8.

How about keeping your shirt on in the community areas of the house? I don’t need my roommate walking into the kitchen in the privacy of her own home looking at your chest hair while you scratch your butt, moving the expired egg nog from one place to another looking for something to eat in my refrigerator. This is not a hostel. Are you hungry? Just ask me and we’ll solve the problem together. But first, put your shirt on. How’d that come off anyway? I surely didn’t take it off of you. It’s midday, what do I need your shirt off for?

And for the little boys running around here obsessed with girls’ breasts. Yes, I know my roommate has a great set of boobs. I see them. They are rather glorious, I know. You, my dear, don’t see them. Matter of fact, you can’t see them. Why, does she even have breasts? That’s what you’re supposed to say. No. You say nothing at all. Period. But nothing, dude. You were just noticing what? It’s not even about insecurity. It’s about appropriate conversation and that ain’t it. You know what? I don’t give a fuck if you like Carmen Electra’s, Pamela Anderson’s, Britney Spears’, and don’t even say a word about Halle Berry’s. Just keep that shit to yourself. If I ask you whether or not you like some lady’s boobs, you’re allowed to answer and I won’t give you shit. It’s not a secret test. I really just want to know. Similarly, I will not jump off of the couch in joy when Justin Timberlake or Brad Pitt’s butt and abs and teeth and face flash across my screen. Not a peep out of me. You, boo, are the hottest thing happening here at Casa de Greg.

And no. You cannot smell my underarm area. No, I said. I sleep with a knife under my bed, okay.