anonymouscstories-blog

[anonymouscstories-blog]

In The Beginning There Was A Fuck Up

I’ve just graduated college, with a B.S. in photography (1) and have decided to move to the Upper West Side of New York City where I would be crawling to my bed (2) in a one bedroom apartment (3) with two other roommates and a cat (4). I hate cats.

On top of the fucking world, I assumed the worst was over (5). I had just broken up with my boyfriend of almost a year, thank fucking god, and made the best decision of my life to move to the big city. Not being sarcastic, I’m not polished enough for the south. And so, with the move came the baggage, well one bag full of the few clothes I had left after getting 90 fucking dollars from a consignment store for the rest (6).

So this apartment. It’s a one bedroom in a boujee-ass part of the city where the owner has divided the place into three sections.

Section A: an actual bedroom with an actual door and an actual fucking window.

Section B: in the living room there has been a divider placed, and on the other side of this divider is the room of roommate number 2. It has two beautifully tall windows and this “divider” blocks all the possibility of there ever being light in any other part of the apartment.

Section C: Yours Truly’s cave. The ceiling is about 4’6” and I climb a ladder to get in. Which I’ve fell off, several times. I did try to bring on guy home so far in my whole month of living here (7). Super turn off in every way.

Moving on. I remind you that I only knew one person in the city (I’ll explain how we met because it is fucking adorable and she would kill me if I didn’t). With that being said, I quickly started to spend a lot of time with my roommates. I had the mindset that “this time was going to be different” and “we are going to be so close” (8), until the fuck up.

I debated on mentioning this part of my story, but I owe you the truth and not a damn thing less. Plus how many fucking people are reading this and what are the odds that this will come back around to them (9)?

So in one weekend, a potentially great friendship turned into MTV’s dream reality TV show. I stole the bitches crush. It took one night, ONE FUCKING NIGHT, and I stole the only person she has found attractive in New York, made-out with said crush in front of her, and got his number without even asking. It’s Saturday night, and I’m minding my own fucking business with the mindset of just one Guinness then I was going home to sleep off this cold (10), but noooooo. I introduced myself, we got on the topic of How I Met Your Mother and from then out we’ve been texting ever since. He says all he could look at was my eyes (thank you Anastasia’s Modern Renaissance Palette, I owe you). Anyways, we spend the remainder of the evening talking and laughing about crazy, stupid things (and his dad jokes) until fucking 4 a.m. This was the definition of a Bitch Move, but I wasn’t even aware of how much of a Bitch Move it was until about 10 a.m. that same day. Lesson to learn for everyone is to fucking include EVERYONE in on the plan, or shit hits not one, not two, but all the fucking fans. So I was then told that that night had been specifically planned and executed for the sack of my roommate to obtain her crushes phone number. Then I learned that she hadn’t felt attracted to someone like this in a while, NOR DID SHE EVEN HAVE HIS FUCKIN’ INSTAGRAM NAME. (In my defense, it’s not that hard to get someone’s number. Maybe I’ll break it down for you later on upon request.) So to keep things rolling, I apologized and got her a cup of coffee to signal that I now knew that I had preformed a Bitch Move. Thinking that that would be the end of that (11), I accepted the invite to get drinks with this guy (who I swear has the personality of Jimmy Fallon).

 Speeding along to Tuesday after my second day at work:

 I of course was late, due to I have no fucking idea how the hell to get to “Lower East Village”. Why isn’t called South-East Village? No fucking clue. Anyways, I finally give up on subways and cabby over. During this cab ride my phone is quickly dropping battery life and so I justifiably turn it off, like a normal human being would do. Not thinking twice, I waltz into the bar and find his chatting with the bartender in an adorable flannel buttoned to the top. Lord have mercy. We spend the whole night getting to know each other and playing footies until he catches me admiring his beard (I’m a fucking sucker for beards) and asks if we should go explore. It’s later in the evening on a Tuesday, so the town is quiet and I think nothing of it. Phone is still off. And he takes me to the next bar. He grabs a Guinness, to be on the safe side, and brings over another craft beer for me to taste.

Okay, long story short, the date was fucking amazing and we kissed under the city lights and he hailed me a cab and the Epilogue of La La Land starts to play in the background. Absolute perfection, until I check my fucking phone (12).

9:58PM “How was the date?”

10:05PM “I hope everything went well.”

10:13PM “I guess you are having a good time.”

10:15PM “Carson?”

10:38PM “You okay?”

10:42PM “I’m beginning to worry.”

10:59PM “This isn’t funny.”

11:03PM “Please text me back.”

11:34PM “Okay, I’m going to bed.”

11:53PM “Carson, answer the phone.”

11:58PM “Your father is worried. I am too”

12:34AM “We are going to call the cops.”

12:47AM “Why aren’t you answering?”

1:32AM “We called the cops.”

 I literally died. Right there. In the fuckin’ cab. There are a series of texts and calls in between these, but you get the gest of what happened. You are probably just as embarrassed for me as I was in that moment, but this has happened before. I think the worst part was that next day I found out that they had gone through the last few people that I had texted and called them.

Person A: his best friend, who I had been texting to get to know a little more about this guy.

Person B: the guy I had ghost after we had a pretty shitty date that weekend.

Person C & D: my roommates.

 And so she found out that I had gone out on a date with her crush, and was then banishing me to the title of “liar” in her book. Fuckin’ boo hoo. Three weeks later I’m still alive in my cave, I’ve talked to him every day and been on multiple dates with him, and have made friends outside of my one bedroom apartment. Me wrapping up the end to this story, which I’m not sure if this makes you want to keep reading or fight me, but all I’m trying to say is that everyone is fucked up in some way and everyone is going to fuck up someone else’s plan at some point. Keep in mind that yeah you do need to watch out who’s toes you are stepping on and recognize that you are stepping on said toes, but this is the year of “fuck everyone else and look out for number one”.

 From number one,

Anonymous C.

 Here’s the part where I ask the question “what would you do if you were Anonymous C” or “is her motto too harsh or honestly, truly the best damn thing to tattoo across my fore arm”? So send me an email or two:

anonymous.c.conversation@gmail.com

[anonymouscstories-blog]

Introducing You To Modern Madness.

(Warning, the stories you are about to read are going to include sex, drugs, and a whole fuck ton of curse words. So enjoy.)

 Welcome to the story of me, Anonymous C. Here I am going to attempt to explain why the hell I am the way I and give you a few entertaining stories to keep you company. Instead of going into a long-ass bio about how I am this “Southern Bell” that was the first of her family to leave the borders of North Carolina and move to New York City, I am going to give you a bullet list. To make things even more interesting I expect you to take a shot for everything that we have in common, whether it be espresso, alcohol or whatever you are into (I don’t fucking judge you, so I expect the same).

 THE LIST:

·      I have a overgrown pixie cut

·      And a nail biting habit

·      I’m obsessed with dogs, like every basic bitch.

·      I had to use autocorrect to spell obsessed, *originally spelt as “obessed”

·      I have a 19-year old sister who is my soul mate *awh

·      I like to take pretty pictures for a living

·      Recently graduated from college

·      Recently decided to go back to college (getting that M.A. baeby)

·      I am a 21-year-old trying to adult

·      I am a 21-year-old quickly failing at so called “adulating”

·      I currently live in a bedroom where I can’t even sit up in my bed because the ceiling is that close

·      I am 5’8” flat footed and 5’10” with my favorite booties on

·      I only wear one pair of shoes, my favorite booties

·      I have three jobs

·      I only own one suitcase worth of anything

·      I hate doing laundry

·      I also hate Trader Joe’s (yes people, I fuckin hate it. WHO WAITS IN A LINE TO GET INTO A GROCERY STORE?)

·      I am a feminist (YAS QWEEN, NASTY LADY FOR LIFE)

·      But I don’t rant about it, I have plenty of other things to rant about

·      I like to pretend my life is a collaboration of a rom-com and a reality TV show

·      I can type more words per a minute on my phone than I can on a keyboard

·      I think I am fucking hilarious, so keep in mind that I am probably laughing through majority of the stories I am telling you

·      I’m clumsy, and not just like “awh, just so cute and clumsy” like “damn, you need an icepack?”

·      I wear “reading glasses” to look way cooler/smarter/better/to hide my uneven eyebrows

·      Oh, I literally straight draw on my eyebrows. Maybe I’ll do a cheesy youtube video or something to show you how it’s done

·      I have very protective parents, I’ll explain later

·      I love to wear hard rock bands and pretend that I know their music

·      and to make list

 So there is more to me than these 30 bullet points of course, but I have to keep you interested to learn more. And if you are still reading this, and have taken at least 5 shots, I think you are in for one hell of a read.