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Fantz in Your Pants: Hop on my dude-smash roll

I dumped some dudes this year. Maybe it’s the pandemic’s fault. Who knows.


A boy at the playground told my kid she “looked dumb.” I almost punched the freckles right off his stupid face.

Life is too long to placate bullies. Especially this year, which has been exactly four Gregorian calendars.

I dumped seven boys so far in 2020. I lifted my crumb-encrusted rug and swept those bitches right underneath. (Two were from the dating realm and five from the friendship realm.)

I ended up taking one friend back. I was on a dude-smash roll, and I went a bit overboard with one of my besties. So I deleted six dudes over six months.

Christy Fantz

That’s 12 testicles under my rug. It’s starting to smell in here.

Who knows what got knocked loose in my psyche, but I sure cleaned house. Shit’s changed, boys.

I’ve always been a magnet for sarcastic dudes. Probably because I enjoy my share of sharp and witty banter. I can deride (and ride) a subject with the best of them. Yet when the mockery piles into mountains atop me, well, my threshold shrinks like a set of cold balls. That seemed to be the trend with these separate friendships I’ve forged over the years. But my patience has worn as thin as their hairlines.

Playful jabs are fine in tasteful waves, but not in a barrage of bullets. Mocking my writing or my kid is not funny.

So instead of waxing sense into six sets of ears that can’t hear, I freaked out on them, ghosted them, then blocked them from all the things. In the Common Era of 20whatthefuck20, there’s no time for misogyny barking sarcasm and negativity. If I want to be objectified, I’ll walk to the corner gas station in a dress.

I really know how to pick a friend.*

One of the problems with these discarded pals was their demand for my presence. It is so hard to carve out chunks of time. After rearing spawn and working, I barely have time to wash my asshole.

As an alternative, I’ve opened my home for those who must set their gaze upon me, but they usually insist I drop life to appease their need to socialize. It enrages me.

I don’t want to hire a babysitter so I can sit at the bar and listen to you talk about what you would do to “that girl over there.” I don’t want to drive across various counties for happy hour. I don’t want to use my one free evening traipsing trendy spots, tripping over bros of all flavor and gender.

I want to catch up on sleep before I faint. I want to vacuum under my bed because I haven’t in years. I want to paint my bathroom. I want to sit in my yard and stare at a tree. I want to melt into the couch and watch network television. I want to figure out how I’m going to handle next week. I want my friends to understand that I need to breathe.

And if they don’t, they can spoon one dozen testicles under my rug. I’d rather hang out with my kid, anyway.

*Tips on how to make caring and loving dude friends are welcome. But if you talk shit about my writing or my kid, I will punch those pores right off your face.