betcha didn't know I am really only 12

All I had to do here is not hit "Publish Post" and you would have all gone on thinking that I am a mature, savvy woman. Lies, all of it. I am a silly, giggling girl. Wanna know why? Case in point:

I have a thing for a very specific type of boy. The Drew Carey type. The overweight, t-shirt-with-a-flannel-over-it, bearded, balding if not bald type. Glasses are optional. PBR is not. Added bonuses include being funny, around 27 and being named Chris. Now, you don't have to meet all of these criteria to make it on my crush list, but heaven help you if you meet more than half of them. So, the other day when the new manager Josh hired came a knockin' on my hotel door, you can only imagine how taken aback I was to find a 27 year old, overweight, bald guy with a full beard wearing a flannel and introducing himself as Chris. Who was funny. And likes beer. Yikes.

I also have a thing for boys who think it is a good idea to drill a hole in the back of their RV's so they can pee out the back while being driven down the highway. Guys like Matthew McConaughey. Gosh, he makes stuff tingle. Secretly, in my pre-teen hormonal dream world, I imagine that if I had just one night and enough booze, I could win this guy over. Well, all those dreams were squashed today by my friend J. Remember her, the one who moved to Costa Rica? Well, evidently the bar in her remote beach town sounded like the perfect place for my dream boy to go have a 3 day bender, which J was kind enough to photograph. And she never even put in a good word for me, not even when she was hugging his nasty, sweaty drunk ass.

Because I imagine in my warped little word that a good word would make some sort of a difference. Still, it's one more crushed hope.

If you would like to see more pictures, you're in luck. She sold them to the paparazzi. The New York Post will be running them tomorrow. Maybe Us Weekly after that.

See? I told you. I am a twit. But only when I wanna be.