Deep Throat, Deep Feelings : Blowing to be Heard

Ever find yourself falling into old habits as a way to cope when emotional disaster strikes? New Year's resolutions of eating healthy, drinking less or whatever you resolved to do in the new year are dropped. Instead a typical Wednesday night turns into drinking yourself to sleep by 9:30 while cradling a bag of Doritos like it were your favorite teddy bear. Time on the internet becomes hours spent perusing the Facebook pages of old classmates in the hopes that they've moved home to South Dakota to become a pharmacist at Rite Aid or that they've just gotten unrecognizably fat; to counter the feelings of failure with your stalled career, or the loneliness of not fitting in at work or school. Just me?
Then there's dealing with rejection. Which for me, often results in using Moon River or Meatloaf as my own personal montage music, while power walking aimlessly (I don't run, I feel like it makes me look like a penguin) through the streets of NY; pushing past grumbling elderly women in felt hats and tacky leopard print gloves on fifth avenue. Imagining myself as the lead in some Rom-com circa 1990, much like Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman' or Drew Barrymore in 'Never Been Kissed.' Hoping that my state of despair paired with my mini skirt, will attract my prince charming; because if I've learned anything from movies growing up, it's that charming, wealthy men, are extremely attracted to dysfunctional women; how I'm still single I'll never know. I've totally got crazy in the bag.
With Meatloaf music ringing through my ears, I play out a love scene in my head; something terribly romantic and suspenseful; like that scene in 'Titanic' when Rose jumps back aboard the ship and Jack races to find her. And for those thirty seconds, while watching, you feel you've found what true love is; and just wish a guy would call you stupid and kiss your face.

 For a brief moment even, I hear Leonardo Dicaprio calling me stupid, and I think such romance is possible! But then I realize it's just an old Jewish woman resembling my mother calling me a stupid cunt for bumping into her. Then, yet again, reality sinks in.
I felt rejected and hopelessly confused not too long ago. I had a huge crush on this guy that we'll call Douchebag Guy, although he's really not a douchebag at all. In fact, he's one of the most respectful men I've met, a real gentleman. But a friend of mine called him a douchebag once and the name kind of stuck. C'est la vie. Anyways, after Douchebag Guy and I 'did it' I didn't really hear from him again for a few weeks; during which time I renounced him completely and proved that I was 'over it' by moving on to more men.
I find that when I feel sexually or romantically rejected, I lash out and look for validation anywhere I can find it. Proof that I am good enough, cool, fuckable. Not the crazy chick who falls asleep next to an empty bag of Doritos and watches 'The Hobbit' three times in theaters; but instead, the quirky girl with a big ass and a heart of gold, the way I describe myself to agents.

Stop being a whore. There's no place for that on Pride Rock

So I went on a sexual pilgrimage, a sex crusade through the cheap bars and pubs of Manhattan, picking up men left and right, avenging myself and my vagina. Replacing french fries and chips with man parts, using each penis as a means to purge away my feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment. Blowing to be heard. Somehow thinking that Douchebag guy would fabricate into a spirit cloud like Mufasa in 'The Lion King,' and watch over me, witnessing all my sexcapades and think; 'Wow, look at all the guys flocking towards her. She's so HOT right now! She's as popular as those hipster mustaches I'll never understand. But regardless, I must make her mine before she's off the market!' Then, while I'm leaning over my toilet, exhaling whiskey and onion rings from an eventful Saturday night, I'd hear a booming James Earl Jones voice and Douchebag Guy's face would fabricate in the toilet water below me.
 Then, Douchebag Guy borrowing James Earl Jones' voice for effect, would say, 'Hannah, and Bonnie (I call my vagina Bonnie Tyler because she's holding out for a hero), you are more than what you have become. You must take your place in line at Five Guys. I'm just not into you, stop blowing your feelings and go back to eating them. Remember who you are! You are the quirky Jewish girl who copes with carbs! Remember! Remember!!!'
And thus, my blowjob cries for help would be heard. That never happened. Instead, it took a dick to knock some sense into me, in lieu of  Rafiki hitting me with a stick.

 I found myself at an all time low, taking a guy home that I wasn't into and who didn't respect me. It was of course in a drunken stupor, him having a hard time...staying hard, and me licking like I was looking for the center of a tootsie pop, because I was...well, hungry, definitely not my best work. Thirty minutes later, he was still as squeezable as a thing of toothpaste and I was no where closer to finding that tootsie roll, and seeing that the whiskey was wearing off, and my stomach was growling, I sent him home. There you have it Mister Owl, I don't know how many licks it was, but after thirty minutes you can go fuck your stupid tootsie pop!

 I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, craving a cheeseburger, and with dick breathe; I swear he had the most aromatic penis; my breath smelt like rose petals and latex all morning. It was then that I looked down and said, 'Bonnie, girrrrrl, this shit has got to stop. I am so sorry, I won't ever put you through that again Let's get our shit together.' And then I ordered a cheeseburger and onion rings for breakfast via GrubHub. Then, I remembered who I was. I'm the crazy Jewish girl who eats her feelings and imagines she's the star of a corny Rom-com. So Bonnie and I got our groove back. We hit the streets with Meatloaf blasting; and hit up the shops in SoHo, we may be hungry, hungover and a whore some days, but we look super stylish doing it. Bonnie in a sparkly thong and me in a mini skirt and my Christian Louboutins.