Blondeism

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Racism…Bad.

Sexism…kinda generally frowned upon.

You get the point, bigotry is not cool.

I want to talk to you about the ism that I am faced with most. The ism that appears to be somewhat amusing yet at the same time as pant-bunchingly obnoxious as the others.

Blondeism: the judgement of someone, their abilities and worth due to the fact they are blonde.

What? Am I crazy? Am I really complaining about being judged because of my hair colour? Well, not complaining so much as pointing out something I’ve noticed but I can throw a few ‘wah’ and ‘sobs’ in for good measure if needs be.

How do I get judged you ask?

Well…

I’ve always been blonde. My natural hair colour is some shade of blonde…I don’t really remember which one. That’s not that uncommon, show me a natural blonde over the age of 15 and I’ll start believing in Santa Claus.

I used to be uber blonde. Marilyn, Stefani step aside I’m the new platinum powerhouse in town.

But damn the roots upkeep was mental.

But since those glorious bright, white days the judgement seems to come when you’re a more natural (and by that I mean more yellow) shade.

 Blonde means I’m dizzy, perhaps not the brightest lightbulb in the illuminations and that no man is safe. I kid you not. I overheard two middle-aged (somewhat rotund) women talking about their friend (I assume similarly middle aged and rotund) who had been left for a younger woman. This was apparently only mildly vexing. The fact this other woman (again I assume not middle-aged or rotund) was blonde.

The word blonde was offered as the universal explanation of why this all happened and delivered with such venom and sisterhood solidarity I almost shaved my head.

I’m often informed other women don’t like me because I’m blonde they see me as a threat. I say that’s their problem and me as a threat has nowt to do with my hair colour… But I’ve heard it a lot.

My friendships are judged. I have lost count of the amount of times I must be friends with a guy because I’m sleeping with him. Yet my brunette friends do not encounter such judgement.

I have things explained to me in words of limited syllables. Yes, I know what syllables are. Apparently light hair colour is a sign of not much between your ears. Now I smile and nod and giggle to myself as the brunettes or red heads ask the stupid questions.

Blondes have more fun…

Well yeah.

I think it’s funny I get judged like this. I enjoy the stone faced reactions when I talk to someone’s fella. I love being smarter than people seem to expect me to be it just gets on my ample tits when people I know are blondeist. You guys should know better.

So for the avoidance of doubt: I’m only dizzy if I’ve not had enough sleep, I am much, much smarter than you and your men are safe…from me anyway.

HDJ xxx

Cock-a-Doodle-Do

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I have been thinking about cocks a lot.

Big ones, skinny ones, ones that climb on rocks.

And I have been examining a lot recently too.

I have discovered that #23 is married, making him the biggest cock I have encountered in a little while. Bullet dodged there me thinks and that despite having an itch that he was more than happy to help me scratch I had lost interest well before the wife was revealed.  He did introduce me to a new phenomenon though, the FaceTime cumshot.  I kid you not.  This guy FaceTimed me to show me him cumming into a very garish hand towel. Um…thanks I think… So I got the “pleasure” of watching him shoot his sticky spidey goo all over the bathroom hand towel and wifey-poo got the “pleasure” of washing it.  Everyone’s a winner.

I did love the fact that afterwards I think he was expecting some over enthusiastic review of size, distance and girth.  Obviously he didn’t get that.  In fact I don’t think I said much afterwards.  Great, you showed me that you can cum.  I am so proud.

So that was two cocks in one really.  What a great sense of value.

In other news…

I have finally been able to use one of my favourite movie lines of all time. [in reference to a penis]:

‘It’s like Godzilla’s tail.  You could take down Tokyo with that thing.’

And I meant every word of it.

You see ladies and gentleman I did something I never thought I would do.  I asked for a picture of someone’s dick.  HDJ requested a cock shot.  HDJ was right to do that and a very, very happy girl when it arrived.  Holy crap in a caravan!!

It was very well played.  I was teased just enough to need to see more.  And I do mean need.

Oh, and also if you talk about cockshots with a guy (in the sense that you are explaining you get sent a lot) if you wait long enough one will arrive from said guy.  Apparently it was an unspoken request or invitation.  Just so you know.

So my thoughts on cocks at this moment in time are…

They still aren’t the prettiest thing you can be sent an unexpected picture of. They have limited ability to be entertaining on the phone or make much in the way of conversation.  But there is one I really would like to get my hands on (maybe a few other parts too) and I plan to…

HDJ xxx

Heavy Petting

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I am seriously considering giving up on this whole dating thing.

Yep, you read that right.

I am not talking about running off and joining a convent (despite how good I look in black) but I am just really, really…bored.

I know how that sounds.

The List has more numbers now than ever, adding new ones all the time.  There are acronyms of interesting nicknames that could turn out to be a really fun ride but I am still left a little meh about the whole thing.

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Now I looked at the idea of Sleeping Beauty Syndrome in the book a while ago now, the idea that men say they want a strong, independent woman and then find themselves married to some half limpet half weimaraner.  The hypothesis was that men wanted someone who wanted them more, that they could be adored by and felt wanted and needed.  That’s changed a little.

Now I know this won’t apply to all men but the ones I have been meeting are just fucking lazy.  Women, what the hell are you doing and allowing that gives these men the idea that is is even ok to ask me to send naked pictures, arrange a date that they asked me on in the first place and then everyday do some weird countdown thing about how excited I am to see them as it approaches (oh yeah and apparently I am paying for everything and picking them up since they don’t want to or can’t drive). I mean am I the only one that doesn’t interest at all?

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I can only think of a handful of men that I would be so excited to meet and spend time with that I would draw little love hearts on my calendar with pink sharpie, weirdly I doubt any of them are within my grasp.  That I would even (no that’s a lie) consider texting every day messages like: ‘5 days until we meet up’ – yep I got that message from #23.  Weirdly I didn’t reply, I thought someone should have some balls in that interaction.

This lack of positive reinforcement seems to send them a bit tantrum-esque 4 year old. I have never encountered so many men that continually ask me if I am ok, apparently not acting like some day count down cheerleader must mean I am sick, to constant messages that required no response just for an interaction (which doesn’t work with me) leads to so many of them flaking, having a headache or indeed just never being heard from again.  And I don’t care.

I am not pining for the ones that never return, half the time I don’t even notice.  I am not crying myself to sleep at night at the thought of dying alone because frankly alone works so much better than having to be some weird combination of appearing independent, letting a man have his own way, and stroking his ego that seems to be what the men I have met recently have all wanted me to be.  Maybe in my 20s I would have been a little more malleable but in my thirties I just can’t be bothered.

So get back in your boxes the toys that think that now is their time to shine as the next Casanova, that I am running out of time before my eggs need to be frozen so I am going to do all the leg work to make a relationship work or the ones that like to keep a rotation of women to pick from. I have done all this before, sure it was fun the first time (add sarcasm to taste) but I just can’t be fucked with it anymore.

So I deleted my online dating profile and “accidentally” lost a few phone numbers.

So Frank it’s you and me for the foreseeable future…and I am perfectly happy with that.

HDJ xxx

Line Dancing

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Lines.

Straight ones, wiggly ones, and ones drawn in the sand. 

Lines are everywhere.

There are those you just join the end of and wait your turn.  There are those you stay away from because that aint no box of frogs you wanna open and then there are those you merrily skip over hardly noticing that they are there.  Well apparently I do, I probably shouldn’t speak for everyone.

Now I have never been the type of person that thinks things through too much.  I am comfortable with living up to a blonde stereotype at this point.

I have always thought, that upon my death bed (granted I don’t think about dying much either) I would rather regret that which I have not done than that which I did in one of my fits of ‘it seems like a good idea so let’s just do it/him/this unspeakable terrible thing’.  I guess I have always thought that if things can be ruined by following your instinct or your deep rooted sense of masochism that it probably wasn’t on that great of a foundation in the first place.  But again, that could just be me.

There are things that I have done that I strongly regret.  There are people that I should have left well alone whether it be with my impressive sense of needing to wind people up as much as possible or rampant lady parts.  There are the situations that you wish you could go back and take the blue pill.

And then there are those situations where you just want to light that touch paper and see what happens. I keep finding myself in these and as I am rapidly getting older I feel I should have a better sense of which ones to try and which ones to leave well and truly alone.  Ha, I make myself laugh, because you know as well as I do that anything that seems like it is going to be a good idea for me is the world’s biggest turn off.

So we dosey doe around the lines that we have drawn and we go about our lives. Well most people do. I on the other hand want to strap on my pith helmet, grab a map and a compass and go marching into territory I should leave well and truly alone.

And I do.

Regularly.

And guess what…?

There are lines in this world not because something is a bad idea, that it could ruin the balance of time and space in some cataclysmic event that the universe will never recover from or because it can make life that type of awkward that makes you want to peel your face off.  But simply because, and I keep learning this, because it wasn’t someone else that drew that line.  It was you. Because deep down you knew that you didn’t want to cross that line and you didn’t want invaders from the other side of the line either.

Yeah I will probably still cross it, just to see whether I needed to draw a line in the first place and I can confirm that the 7 or 8 times I have done this recently I can admit that my line drawing skills are pretty finely honed, even if I don’t listen to them.

HDJ xxx

Haters Gonna Hate

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So if you are someone that keeps up with my Facebook and Twitter you will have seen that I have had an eventful day so far. It started great with immediately throwing up after climbing out of bed and that has to be the highlight. I won’t bore you with it all again but it got me thinking about the times I have been a hater.

And dear reader I have been.  I have hated other women to a point where if someone had asked me why I hated them my response would have been as mature and specific as ‘because she’s a bitch’.  Apparently my inner toddler still gets an airing from time to time.

I have hated women I saw as a threat to my relationship, women that appeared to have it altogether where I was still floundering around trying to get one area of my life to just behave so the others could get chance to at least be looked at; and hated them simply because they hated me.  It’s been a while since I hated someone with such intensity and time-consuming venom.  Now I’m getting too old for that shit.  It is actually true that when you are in your 30s you spend far less time worrying about other people and how you appear to them because it really doesn’t matter.

It’s a sad fact that the sisterhood of woman-kind is a total myth.  Don’t get me wrong there are good friends that would never cross a line that we all know should not even have to be a line in the first place but there will always be that anomaly on the horizon.  That woman with self-esteem so low if it died they would have to dig up to bury it that has a plan for making herself feel better, usually at the expense of some other woman.  It’s sad but it happens to be true.  I wish it wasn’t and I am glad that my time spent in this circle has passed because in all honesty what’s the point?!

I have also been hated, hated to the point of physical assault on one occasion for simply standing around and having fun with some friends too close to her military style perimeter around her man.  I have been abused to my face, behind my back, via social media, by text, email and even had the awesome power of the blank from a woman I had never met before because she had decided she didn’t like me.  I have experienced it all and I never truly cared because I know who I am.

Slightly dysfunctional, probably too stubborn, a little off my goal weight (and annoyingly that’s increasing all the time), too honest and in all fairness a prickly little nightmare a lot of the time.  But that’s me.  It’s who I am.  I am not responsible for any of the reasons you don’t  like you, that you don’t trust your man or that I have the crazy kinda life that warrants being written about.  And for all those things I should not feel the need to have to apologise.  So I won’t.

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I might be going all Martin Luther King here but I do hope that one day (not too far ahead so I might actually live to see it) women everywhere could stop competing, hating and one-upping each other and realise that through doing all of that bullshit all we are actually doing is proving that we are our own worst enemies after all; and what is far more worrying that the men of this world might actually be right about us…

HDJ xxx

Rucking Hell

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Every now and again someone comes along that makes me take pause.  That type of pause where you have to consider whether you are really the person you say you are, or if push comes to shove you aren’t going to allow yourself to be pushed and shoved into a fun yet ultimately tricky moral situation.  I have encountered one such specimen recently.

Now this guy is not what I would usually be too interested in.  But in the light of the ones that I would usually be interested in being somewhat disastrous I decided to try something new.  And lo and behold here comes T.E.R.P.

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Now you may wonder why he is not on the List.  Not everyone gets on the List you know.  At first when I was in the low numbers,1-14 say, I was more lenient with admission but now I think that less is more.  So some get a nickname that I abbreviate and that’s what you lovely lot see.  This is done to protect the identities of those involved.  Not everyone is looking for a spotlight and like to keep it anonymous and also so I don’t land some of them in trouble (warranted or otherwise).

There is a limited amount I can tell you about TERP, I know quite a bit about him now as we have chatted a lot and yet I am still to ask fundamental questions that will define whether I am being a harlot or indeed just embracing what life throws my way and at this point I don’t want or need to know.  I’m enjoying the fantasy that comes along with these new interactions, the banter, the flirting and the ability to be myself without diluting for those of a sensitive nature.

I’m interested to see where this could go, what it could be and what position I might find myself in both metaphorically and physically speaking.  It has all the potential to be an experience that might leave me walking a bit funny and having material enough for the next book.

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I’ll have to keep you updated as I go along but for now. TERP promises to be something that could very well be the most fun I have had in a long time…

HDJ xxx

The Caked Crusader

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Fruit – cake [froot-keyk] noun:

1. A rich cake containing dried or candied fruits, nuts, etc.

2. Slang. a crazy or eccentric person; nut.

3. ‘They look normal, they have normal-ish friends. They make conversation, they laugh, they make an effort to get to know you and then BOOM. It’s like someone flicked a switch and on goes the crazy! They’re insecure, paranoid, hyper-sensitive and completely unreasonable… Every man has an ex he would describe as this. Every woman has been accused of being this.’ – The Dating Adventures of HDJ “You Give Women a Bad Name

I have written many times about my adventures involving Fruitcakes of varying degrees.  It turns out I was unaware of one that for quite possibly the last 4 years has been my biggest fan.

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I seriously had no idea this woman even existed until a couple of weeks ago and even then I gave her about as much thought as most people give Piers Morgan’s underwear drawer. Namely, no thought at all.

I have often outlined my ideas about the Fruitcake (definition above for good measure), that I loathe them with a passion because for the most-part they pass themselves off as normal members of society and are not up front and honest about the fact that they are one passive aggressive tweet away from going all Ted Bundy.  I hate that every woman I know has been accused of being a fruitcake for simply having those pesky damn emotions (or seeing straight through some other woman’s bullshit that a man was oblivious to) and I hate that all men think we are going to turn into one at the sight of a woman slightly more attractive than we are. Fruitcakes are like Ebola – no good for humanity.

So yeah, this fruitcake…well let’s do the backstory shall we.

Hey, #11 you’re finally getting a blog about you…sort of.

So I met #11 years ago now.  We became good mates bonding over books, art and heavy metal music and the fact that we are both not that bad to look at.  We flirted, yes that’s generally what men and women who find each other attractive do and never managed to align being single at the same time.  Had we, this might have been a very different tale.  But that’s it.  That’s the whole story sans Fruitcake.

Now we would have continued to be friends had it not been for Chubbs de la Fruitcake.  She decreed as she took her throne as the Queen of Passive Aggressive Needyville that he and I could no longer be friends.  Her waistline, her run in with the ugly tree and her self-respect could not handle my presence in her life.  (Granted I wasn’t in her life, I wasn’t even really in his but for the sake of a good story let’s ignore that).

And folks that’s your lot for 4 maybe 5 years…

They broke up recently, she left him I am told and I am a little fuzzy on the details because…well I don’t give enough of a shit to ask, but it’s apparently my fault.  I am giving Gabriel Byrne a run for his money at being the devil and the worst part is I didn’t even get to have any of the fun I am apparently charged with.  How unfair is that?

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From what I understand for years this girl has hated me with a passion so strong that I have never noticed it.  Has held me accountable for her failings to have any common sense or indeed self-confidence and blamed me (not her crazy fruitcake actions) for the breakdown of her relationship.  Let’s hope she doesn’t get together with anyone I have actually slept with… Haha I kid, she couldn’t pull any of them.  She punched above this time and should have been grateful.

Now I will admit I have slept with guys that have had girlfriends in my youth, guys with fiancees.  The fireman was the week before he got married and I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t actually care and their ire and hatred I would understand and even in Kill Bill fashion expect but I was not expecting to be called a whore because I didn’t sleep with someone’s boyfriend.

So since we both know you will read this #1 Fan here’s my message to you:

Hi,

We’ve never met. Don’t worry I don’t think we need to. I’m a friend of your ex boyfriend’s.  I can honestly admit to having flirted with him before you two got together and as I don’t know your official dates let’s hazard a guess a little after (but I can’t be sure about that.) I will also admit that I told him he was an idiot to date someone so insecure — but you’re kinda proving better than I ever could now (so cheers for that – it’s always nice to be right.) I have never slept with your boyfriend, swapped bodily fluids of any description and he might be one of the only numbers on the List who has never sent me a picture of his cock (yay #11).  

I understand you don’t like me, I am not sure why I am quite adorable really, but I figure that’s more to do with the fact that you don’t really like you much.  As scapegoats go I am a pretty good one, I don’t care enough about what people think to generally do much about it but as one woman to another here you are making us all look bad.

I don’t want you to “like” me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter. I just want you to let me move out of living in your head rent free because it’s not appearing to be a very safe place.

Good luck in the future Chubbs. All my love and a mild dash of sarcasm.

HDJ xxx